In The Dark
by JellybeanChiChi
Summary: The distance and circumstances surrounding Sara's and Grissom's marriage are taking its toll. Between misunderstandings and longing, they sometimes feel they are left in the dark. Will a light emerge out of their relationship? GSR. Angst. In progress
1. Prologue

A/N: I have had this story for a long time now, and I have fiddled back and forth whether I should publish or not. I have been in a terrible funk lately, and I have lost my mojo to write, for fun and for my job. Not much has been working to get my mojo back, so I thought about this community and how it inspired me to write. I know that a lot of people have left this fandom, and there might not be much interest, but what the heck, right?

I do have about seven chapters completed of this story and I hope to continue this story at a slow, steady pace. I tend to rush my storytelling, and I want to try and not do that with this story. Plus, I want to keep my interest and mojo.

So, anywho, here is the start of the story. Like I said, I've been toying with the story for a while, so it is not in direct canon with the timeline of current events. It's just a story with characters I like to give a voice, which reminds me...

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything related to CSI. Mea culpa. Also not edited.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**  
November 2006  
Harold Cummings couldn't believe he was out of that room, and as he gasped for every labored breath he took, he found a sliver of solace that he would not have die there.

He wished he knew why he was meant to die. He was asked over and over how intelligent he thought he was. How aware he was of his own faults and failures. How stupid he was to believe that no one would ever discover that he was a fraud.

Now all he could think about is how he took fresh air for granted, because nothing ever tasted so sweet. Even as he felt the coppery taste of blood trickle down the side of his mouth.

"Who... the hell... were... you?" he gasped to the sky above him. He laid on the ground helpless just waiting for the inevitable. Discarded like junk in the middle of nowhere. Throughout his entire career he unceasingly and charismatically delivered upon the pulpit how eternal life awaited the righteous man. Sure, he had human foibles — but what was more important? The message or the messenger?

But he knew the true answer: Money. It's always money.

Now he laid alone and bleeding. Only the nocturnal sounds of the desert enveloped him. Not his fame. Not his fortune. Not his faith. Eternal life seemed meaningless while in pain in the middle of fucking nowhere.

His faith. He thought about that so much in that room. That room that enveloped him in nothing but silence. "You need silence for atonement," he was told. Those were the last five words he heard from another human being (save the voices he heard over and over in his head) in... Days? Weeks? My God, it could have been months for all he knew. He never knew how long he was in that godforsaken room. It was almost a relief when the man forcibly released him from that prison.

Too bad he cut him up all over his weakened body before he did so. And as the knife ripped through his flesh upon his arms, chest and face, the man. ... or was a ghost?... said... The beating left him bleeding but the man... that ghost said...

Nothing.

Alone. Bleeding. Barely breathing. Dying. No one would know he was dead. Did anyone know he was gone? Would anyone care? God, would he hear another voice before he took another breath?

At least he could think of one notion of solace. _Not in that room,_ he thought to himself. _I'm not in that room._

* * *

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Many, many thanks to my friend Sylvie for her constant encouragement. I still need to finish reading her stuff. Monamie, this was a spur of the moment thing to post. I didn't want to take to much time to think about it because I would have talked myself out of it. :-)

Again, the timeline is iffy and does not perfectly follow canon. I must confess, I am guessing at the date of all this. I hope no one minds too much. I hope I am given a pass as far as the timeline goes. (and many apologies to Parisian cabbies. It was just this one guy :-)

**DISCLAIMER:** I owe nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**  
_Mid 2012..._

"So, you are back in Sin City," said a jovial DB Russell as he saw his team member, Sara Sidle, enter the break room of Las Vegas Crime Lab. "I trust all is well in the City of Lights?"

Sara offered a soft, albeit a strained smile, to the older man. When he was in a positive mood, DB's attitude could be infectious or bothersome, depending on the day the recipient was having. Although he had yet to hit his two-year mark with his team, his quirky demeanor was welcomed and his intelligence respected. Sara felt comfortable enough to be herself — good, bad and indifferent — around DB, mostly because she felt like she didn't have anything to prove, and neither did DB.

But she didn't feel much like smiling on this particular day. Yet, that didn't mean she couldn't be congenial to DB.

"The visit was nice, thanks," she said with the same smile.

"Is everything OK? You and your ball and chain causing any trouble?..."

DB's wide smile might have morphed into one of his stories, but Sara stopped him before he could continue. "No, we're fine. It's... actually it's our dog. He's not doing well."

With that DB put a hand on Sara's shoulder. "Oh, I'm sorry. How long have you two had him?... Her?"

"Him. Hank. Gil rescued him a while time before we started..." Sara paused. The last she wanted to do right now was share her story..

And that feeling was not lost on DB. "Ah. A package deal." DB knew Sara was a private person who needed space. But that wouldn't stop him from offering support. "Well, door's open if you need to talk."

"Thanks. I'm just going to get to work..."

"Yeah," DB said as he turned to grab the carafe on the counter behind him. "How about a cup of joe."

Relieved by the change of subject, a bit of tension subsided. "Please."

* * *

"My condolences, Dr. Grissom." The sincerity in Dr. Philippe Malle's voice was as evident as his French accent. "Please do not feel pressured. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. As long as you need."

The doctor exited the small exam room. Grissom could barely hear anything outside the door. Not that he was listening. He was lost in his thoughts of the last few days. He had awaited this moment for weeks, but all the preparation in the world couldn't subside his heartbreak.

After Sara left two weeks ago, Grissom did whatever he could do for Hank to make him feel comfortable, loved him and work to make sure the pooch was in as little pain as possible. For the past three days, it was all Grissom did. There was no way of course to gauge whether rubbing Hank on his belly or scratching his head behind his ears would make a difference, but just being able to go through those motions offered Grissom a modicum of control over the situation._ "If I'm just with him,"_ Grissom would think,_ "he'll know how much I love him."_

After taking off work on Friday, and spending all day Saturday with Hank, Grissom awoke on Sunday on the couch with the pooch's head on his lap. That morning the two of them were listening to Prokofiev's _Peter and the Wolf_, for sentimental reasons, really. That was one of the first pieces of music Grissom's father introduced to him as a small boy. A musical memory of a father/son moment, where the elder Grissom hoped his son would learn the sounds of the different instruments played in the piece.

As Grissom sat on the small couch of his rented Paris apartment, he stroked Hank's fur. The refrain of the oboe, symbolizing the duck of the story, played. The air surrounding Grissom became so melancholy, much like the realization that this moment with his beloved friend would not last.

The issue became clear later that afternoon when he heard Hank whimper and struggle to look up at his master. Stifling the urge to weep, urgency struck Grissom. He cradled a blanket around Hank, and picked him up in his arms. He spoke softly, over and over, "I got ya, buddy. We're gonna get you some help. I got ya, Hank." But even as he focused on Hank, Grissom silently thought,_ Oh, God, please. I need him. Please._

Grissom walked as quickly out of his apartment and down the stairs. When he stepped outside, rain pelted him. He had forgot a hat and coat for himself, but it didn't matter to him. He simply bundled his friend as best as possible.

The first taxi ignored him, but the second taxi stopped. But once Grissom got inside the cab, the driver noticed the dog and quickly resisted.

"Sortez cette sale bête de ma voiture!"

Although he heard the man call Hank a filthy beast, Grissom didn't possess the emotional strength to fight and pleaded with the driver. "S'il vous plaît. Il a besoin d'un docteur. Il ne s'agit ... pas … d'un long trajet en voiture." The veterinarian was maybe 14 blocks away. Not a long drive at all.

But the driver wanted nothing to do with Grissom or Hank and spouted expletives as Grissom exited.

Once again on the street, Grissom felt pressure build in the pit of his stomach. Thinking there was no time to spare, he opted to walk through the streets rather than waste time with another Parisian cabbie. Fortunately, the rain turned to a sprinkle after five blocks and he was able to release some hold on Hank and allowed more air upon the dog's face.

That's when Grissom noticed the dog looking at up at him. Just like that final moment on the couch, Hank's sad eyes pierced Grissom's heart. This time, he couldn't hold back a sob as he talked softly again, "I'm here for ya, Hank. That's my boy."

Finally at the veterinarian's office, Grissom still couldn't breathe a sigh of relief. The waiting room only held one owner and her dog, but he could not only see distress in the young woman's face, but in her dog as well.

But Grissom had no time to reflect on their looks or his own appearance. He strode to the counter. He started to speak a mile a minute. He needed the doctor. Hank was not doing good. Can't you tell by the looks of him?

He knew his voice was uncharacteristically louder than normal, but it didn't seem like the receptionist was recognizing the urgency. And Grissom had no idea why. "Why aren't you listening to me?!" he shouted.

The receptionist left her seat, and entered a door behind her desk. She returned almost instantly with a tall woman, whom Grissom recognized as a nurse.

"Monsieur Grissom, we know you are upset..."

"I'm sorry to shout, but she wasn't helping and Hank... he's..."

The nurse turned to the receptionist and the two spoke in French. That is when Grissom realized his mistake; the poor girl behind the counter couldn't speak English and Grissom neglected to address her and try to speak French.

"Please, my apologies. Je suis désolée." he meekly said to the receptionist. But she simply gave him a soft smile in return and put up her hand as if to say, "It is OK."

As the receptionist disappeared again in the back room, the nurse came around the counter and put a hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Monsieur Grissom, come with me."

* * *

_TBC_

A/N: Reviews, comments are most appreciated. Please let me know if I should continue.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own CSI or anything.

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

Once at the vet, it didn't take long for Hank to pass. And Grissom was proud of his boy. He held on as long as he could. Still, it wasn't enough. Never is.

Grissom stood up and gathered the courage to leave. But before he could, he stroked Hank's head and bent down to give him one last, tear-filled kiss. "You mutt," he said, his words catching on small, soft sobs. "I love you. Thank you, Hank. You were always there for me."

After one more kiss, Grissom stood again. He swiped a shaky hand across his mouth and eyes. He was ready. He was ready to leave the vet's office, alone. But he looked down at Hank once more. He looked so peaceful. Just like he does when Grissom would leave the bed to go to the bathroom and find he vacated filled by his canine protege, who would fake the "can't move; fast asleep" pose better than anyone. Even Sara Sidle.

Sara. What was he going to say to Sara? Lately the two of them had a hard time communicating at all. But when they were with Hank... things seem more fluid, more complete. He was a piece that fit the puzzle of their relationship. And now that piece was missing.

He wanted to talk to her, but then … he didn't.

An even thicker fog of melancholy encompassed Grissom as he left the exam room. Once outside, he noticed how dark the room was. He looked at his watch and saw the time 7 p.m. He had been at the veterinarian's office for almost five hours. He must have spent at least three and a half hours in that room with Hank. He recalled dozing for a short time, but mostly Grissom just recalled memories of his dog. When Hank first came into his life. All the time they spent in the park at Vegas. The numerous shoes and underwear the dog destroyed. The faithful friend and traveling companion he was. They both traveled a lot. That couldn't have been good for Hank's system. Maybe if they just settled in one place...

"Monsieur Grissom?"

Grissom turned around startled. It was the young receptionist. "Vous voulez un café?"

A cup of coffee... Grissom doubted he could drink anything at the moment. "Non, merci," Grissom replied softly with a smile. It was so late, Grissom wondered if the Dr. Malle was still here. "Umm.. S'il vous plaît. Le docteur est encore là?"

"Oui, un instant." The receptionist left to fetch the doctor.

Sitting on one of the reception chairs, Grissom checked his phone messages as he waited. Four missed calls. All from the same woman.

_Why would she be calling so much?_he thought. Then it hit him. "Ah dammit. The reception."

He quickly dialed. "It's Grissom."

"Professeur! You had me worried," said the woman on the other line, her English bearing a Portuguese accent. "Where have you been? I called. I went by the appartement..."

"Hank died."

Amalia, Grissom's secretary at the university, let out a long sigh. Along with being his subordinate, Amalia and her husband, Denis, another member of the Sorbonne, had befriended both Grissom and Sara. "Oh, professeur. I am so sorry."

"Thank you."

"Oh, poor Hank. He was your filho."

"Yes," Grissom replied honestly. "He was."

Amalia could hear the pain in Grissom's voice. Perhaps if she could make him laugh. "Denis and I were so worried you did not arrive earlier today. I had thought you were just being... what do you say? Antisocial? ... Yes. Doing that again."

Grissom wanted to chuckle but didn't. "No. That's not the reason."

Amalia conceded those efforts might be futile, for now. "I feel terrible for you. Where are you?"

"At Dr. Malle's office."

"I will pick you up and take you home."

"That's not necessary."

"Shut up."

Amalia, while usually completely professional with Grissom, had taken pointers from Sara on how to deal with the enigmatic entomologist. Certain situations called for strict resolutions. As Sara said, "Don't let him give you too much shit."

Amalia knew this was one of those times. Sara is in America and wouldn't want her husband walking the streets at night alone and in this mood. "I can leave in a few minutes. People are leaving now for dinner. I will pick you up and take you home. You are welcome to stay with my family..."

Grissom internally groaned. While he was close to the family, he didn't want to be around people, then Amalia seemed to read his thoughts.

"... But I know you would want your privacy at this time."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "I could always take a taxi."

"You will stay there and wait for me, professeur."

"OK. OK," Grissom was also aware that Amalia took pointers from Sara, and knew when to quit. "Merci."

Grissom hung up the phone and felt totally exhausted. Dr. Malle found the American a few minutes later, sitting with head hung low in his hands. He placed his hand softly on the man's shoulder. Grissom looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

"Monsieur Grissom, we have some papers to sign."

With a nod and a supportive hand from the doctor, Grissom stood up and followed Dr. Malle to his office. Before they left the reception area, Dr. Malle turned off the lights leaving the room in complete darkness.

* * *

"I cannot believe her," Amalia said as she slammed her hands on the steering wheel of her Peugeot. "She had to have been listening into our conversation."

Grissom sighed. The situation before them was the last thing he needed. He, Amalia and Aloisio — Denis and Amalia's toddler son — were only a block away from the apartment when Amalia noticed a familiar figure outside his front door.

Many professors of the Sorbonne had aggressive admirers, and Professeur Gil Grissom was no exception. The problem was his most ruthlessly flirtatious admirers was Sylvie Martin, a business manager of grants in the biology department. She preyed on men like a hunter, and played on men's sexual appetites and vulnerabilities to gain her prizes.

When Grissom called, Amalia and her husband had just finished hosting a before-dinner reception for members of the department. Among those in attendance was Sylvie. And it would not surprise Amalia that Sylvie would listen in on another extension if she knew Amalia was speaking with Grissom.

While Grissom is generally clueless of flirtations from students, Sylvie's aggressive nature was not lost on him. But he had to be careful with his relationship with Mademoiselle Martin; she held the key to his funding at the university and had been working with Grissom on a possible textbook deal. While he would never give in to her advances, she couldn't put her off completely.

Politics. Even a half a world away from Vegas, Grissom couldn't escape the snare of political smoozing.

But knowing the woman was in front of his apartment did not bode well. "I really don't want to deal with her," Grissom said, despondently.

"I am so sorry, professeur. I should have taken the call outside, but I didn't know she would listen..."

"Amalia, this is not your fault."

"Bardajona," Amalia said, under her breath, leading Grissom to arch his eyebrow and gesture to the Aloisio.

Both adults looked at the smiling child. Amalia shrugged and said quietly, "He has heard worse." Then she continued in a sing-songy voice, "Hein, Aloi? Tu as entendu pire, non?"

"OUI!" the child exclaimed happily in such a way that even Grissom had to smile.

Amalia smiled at both her companions. Grissom's smile was a small triumph. "I cannot convince you to stay with us."

"Thank you, but I just need to … be alone."

"I understand," Amalia said, knowing the answer before it left Grissom's mouth. "But I am not leaving you here, alone, with her."

Amalia knew Sylvie would go to any lengths when chasing a man, and Grissom was completely unaware of Sylvie's ingenious tactics. Amalia knew of a time when Sylvie learned how to forge the handwriting of a wife and wrote a series of notes to a phantom lover to trick her husband into believing she was leaving him for a younger man. And who was there to pick up the pieces when that husband fell apart after reading the notes? Sylvie.

So Amalia and Grissom both sat in the car and thought of options. Grissom's office was out of the question, because Sylvie might actually go there to find Grissom. Plus, Grissom had no clothes there and didn't want to go back and forth in the morning.

Then Amalia had an idea. She searched in her purse and found what she sought. "You have two choices. I have the key's to my brother's studio. He is out of town and I am supposed to feed his fish and spiders. I'm sure you will not have a problem with either."

The comment garnered another smile. "I can't do that... he wouldn't want a stranger in his place."

"Nonsense. You know, Rene. He got the second spider because of you."

Grissom did know Rene, and his studio was only four blocks away. He could walk to his place in the morning and then take the train to work. It was a viable solution. But Amalia did have two ideas. "What's the other option?"

"I go and forcibly make Sylvie leave, perhaps by her hair, if necessary."

Grissom shook his head. While creative, it was not a practical solution. "Amalia, we both know that is not a good option."

"It would be my pleasure."

"I'm sure it would, but I think Rene's studio is a better option, if you sure he will not mind."

"I shall call him?"

"S'il vous plaît."

Amalia hit a speed dial on her cellular and covered the mouthpiece as it rung. "See? You should stay in Paris for another semester. Your French sounds much better."

"Obrigado."

Amalia gave him a surprised look at his use of Portuguese, but kept her comment to herself as her brother answered the line.

* * *

_Reviews, comments appreciated._


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

Rene was more than happy to allow Grissom to stay a night at his studio. First because he believed Grissom to be a good person who would not disturb his space.

But also because Rene knew his sister wouldn't allow Grissom too far into the studio without cleaning it first. Free housekeeping is free housekeeping, after all.

Before opening the door to Rene's studio, Amalia handed Aloisio to Grissom and directed them to the outside patio. "Give me a few minutes, professeur, and I will bring you tea and something to eat," she said, retrieving toys for Aloisio from a bag. "Once I finish the living area, you and Aloisio can be inside while I attend to the bed and bath."

Amalia turned to leave, saying something in Portuguese under her breath that Grissom could only surmise was a criticism on Rene's cleaning habits.

Aloisio seemed content with Grissom. He had known the toddler since he was an infant. Amalia had served as Grissom's secretary for the first year he served at the Sorbonne and Amalia became pregnant during that time. Grissom left Sorbonne to travel to other projects while Sara stayed in Vegas. But as he and Sara awaited news for their proposed grant project, another opportunity arose at the Sorbonne, and Grissom took it.

Amalia wanted to return to work after giving birth and caring for the infant, but she was having little luck. While other professors did not think she could juggle responsibilities with a child, Grissom believed Amalia could handle the workload with flexibility, which Grissom was willing to offer. He regarded her as a gifted linguist who spoke most romance languages, along with English, German and some Slavic languages. He asked the university to call Amalia about the work opportunity.

And a critical factor for Grissom: Sara liked Amalia on the spot. He didn't want his new wife having doubts about a woman who would be spending a lot of time with her new husband.

Not that Sara ever had anything to worry about. But Grissom knew what false impressions could do to a relationship.

Although she had family who often watched Aloisio, there were several occasions when Grissom allowed Amalia to bring the child into the office. She never took advantage of the graciousness and the child was well behaved and had a happy disposition.

And now, several months later, Aloisio felt comfortable with "professeur," as his mother always referred to Grissom. Aloisio especially liked Grissom's glasses, which he usually took off the professeur's face. But Grissom left the house without them, so Aloisio settled for the professeur's nose.

Grissom snorted, which elicited giggles from the boy. Grissom settled him on the large patio table and sat on a chair, so the duo was eye-to-eye. Aloisio grabbed a toy and gave it to Grissom, who took it.

"Merci," Grissom told the boy, who smiled.

Then Grissom gave the toy back to Aloisio who said, "Tank."

It was the boy's version of "Thank you," which amazed Grissom. Amalia was already trying to teach the boy other languages, and recognize what phrases go with what people.

The game continued until Amalia arrived with biscuits, tea and a bottle of milk, which Aloisio quickly pilfered for himself. Afraid the boy might fall backwards to get into a comfortable drinking position, Grissom picked the boy up and placed him on his lap.

The quiet moment lasted until Grissom heard the telltale sound of sucking air. He took the bottle from the boy who got off Grissom's lap and stood on the floor. Grissom took the toddler's hand and they walked the short distance to the patio sliding door. Confident that Amalia was done with the living area, they entered where Aloisio immediately yelled, "MAMA!"

Amalia appeared from the bedroom area, with an armload of towels and sheets. She placed them in a sack and put them aside before picking up the child. "I will be done in only five more minutes."

"You could stop now..."

"Nonsense," she put her son to sit down on the sofa. "Cleaning of the bath will only take five minutes."

Grissom looked at the boy, whose eyelids looked heavy, and sat down next to him. "It's going to be more than five minutes, isn't it?"

Aloisio let out a soft sigh, then moved to a prone position, resting his head on Grissom's thigh. The moment took Grissom by surprise, not just because the boy felt comfortable enough to do that with Grissom, but because it reminded him of something Hank would have done. Suddenly, Amalia's words floated in his head, "_He was your filho." _He was your son.

Grissom fought some tears, and gently patted the soft hair on Aloisio's head. Hank was his son. His baby. And now he was gone.

* * *

Amalia finished some 30 minutes later. She picked up her son from where she left him — on the sofa next to Grissom, who sat with his eyes closed. He opened his eyes as Amalia tapped him on the shoulder to pick up Aloisio

As she did, Amalia noticed that Grissom's phone had fallen from his pocket and lied on the couch. It was dangerously close to being out of battery life.

"You are in need of a charger," Amalia said in a whisper.

"It will be fine," Grissom said. "He fell right back to sleep."

Amalia smiled and adjusted Aloisio upon her shoulder. "He has had a big day. As have you." She watched as Grissom looked down to the floor. She knew it was time to let him be alone. "Professeur, I will leave you. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No," Grissom answered. "Thank you, Amalia. You've done more than enough."

Taking hold of the baby bag, Grissom walked Amalia to her car. As she put her sleeping son into his car seat, Grissom placed the bag on the passenger's seat, and then walked to the other side of the car to open the door for Amalia.

After buckling her seat belt, Amalia searched in her purse once more, this time procuring an international phone card from her wallet. "Since you have little time on your phone, please use this card. I'm sure it has enough minutes so Sara can call you back at Rene's number," Amalia said as she scribbled her brother's phone number.

"I can call her tomorrow."

Amalia looked at her boss and examined his face. She did not want to tell him what to do or invade his private nature. But also wanted to help him and what he needed was to speak with his wife. "Please, professeur" she said empathetically. "Take it."

He conceded and took the card. He said goodbye, watched them drive away and returned to Rene's now clean studio.

He was alone, really alone.

Returning to the coach, he looked at the card in his hand. Hank was as much a part of Sara's life as his own. He grabbed the cordless phone and waited for an answer.

"You've reached Sara Sidle. Please leave a message..."

Nothing like an answering machine to make you feel more alone. "Sara, it's me. Call me." Grissom couldn't help but pause before continuing. "It's about Hank. I'm at Amalia's brother's. Rene's studio. Here is the number."

After offering the number, Grissom was going to hang up, but added. "Please call as soon as you can. I … I'm kind of lost here."

He put the phone back in its cradle and sat down. He rubbed his tired face and felt the pounding of his head. Although Amalia made a point of changing the sheets, Grissom would not sleep there. He went around the room closing every shade. He fortunately found a blanket in a hallway closet, and proceeded to turn off all the lights sans the the lamp by the couch. He toed off his shoes and laid down. He felt miserable and probably smelled awful, but a shower could wait until the morning when he returned to his apartment.

For now, he needed sleep and rescue his pounding head plagued with a migraine. He turned off the lamp by the sofa and laid down. He welcomed the darkness, and soon he was asleep.

* * *

Until the phone rang. Grissom woke up with a start, his head just as heavy and miserable as before. As he groped for the offending, ringing phone, he bumped his hand into the lamp. He turned it on and took a deep breath. This was it. He had to break the news to Sara. Grissom grabbed the handset and pushed the answer button.

"Sara?"

There is a pause on the other line, then Grissom a woman speaking French very quickly. He could barely understand every fourth or fifth word.

"Pardon?" Grissom said, hoping the woman might stop.

She paused for a moment and then asked, "Rene?"

Grissom sat up. _Oh, yeah, _he thought. _I'm not at home, and this obviously isn't Sara._ "Umm... Rene... Il n'est pas ici." _He's not here. Please hang up,_Grissom thought.

Fortunately, the woman did hang up, without question.

Grissom laid back down but couldn't even shut his eyes. He looked at the clock. Four hours had passed, and no call from Sara.

He found the calling card and dialed Sara's number again. "You've reached Sara Sidle. Please leave a message..."

He hung up the phone without leaving a message. Now wide awake, he sat up and prepared to gather his things.

* * *

Sara stared at her phone as it rang. Since the caller ID read, "UNKNOWN," she let it go to voicemail. She had been receiving a lot of those phone calls. But while some are spam solicitors, she knew that sometimes they could be Grissom.

She had received a phone call several hours ago from an unknown number that she learned was Grissom because he left a voicemail. She couldn't take the call because she was busy at a scene with DB. She had only listened to the first few words of Grissom's message when she got an incoming call from the lab.

Even though she didn't listen to the entire message, in those few words she could tell her husband was tired. She knew he was scheduled to go to a reception and dinner that he desperately wanted to forgo. He was probably calling to tell her he was finally home from that borefest.

And honestly, she didn't have time to talk about the borefest while at work. That conversation could wait for later. _Right? _she would think to herself, double guessing her intention.

She checked her phone again. No message from the unknown caller. Must have been a solicitor.

Besides, Grissom should be in deep sleep by now.

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: I had a hard time breaking apart the last few chapters, which is why I am going to multipost tonight. I might regret it later, but I am unsure whether readers might get bored with this premise. I am sorry if it is going slow. So please give the next chapter a try.

Reviews/comments are always appreciated.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

After checking to see if she had a message, Sara continued to walk down the lab halls. She thought about listening to Grissom's message all the way through, but she had to take evidence samples to Hodges. If she was to get in and out with minimal words, she had to drop off the evidence quickly.

She thought she succeeded and was going to check the message, but then Hodges popped his head out of the his door as she went down the hallway.

"HEY!"

Sara turned around and looked at Hodges. The two stood rooted in their spots. Losing patience, Sara shrugged her shoulders, to which Hodges used his finger in a "come here" motion.

Sara rolled her eyes and walked back to his lab. "What is it, Hodges?"

"Hello, Sara."

Sara pursed her lips. "Hello, Hodges. What is it?"

"You having a pleasant shift?"

"I was, till right now."

Hodges looked scorned. "I'm just trying to be friendly."

"So am I," Sara retorted. "That's why I haven't walked away ignoring you."

"Ah," Hodges said. Clearly she was in no mood to chat. "Nick was looking for you."

Sara looked at him. There must be more, she thought. "And?"

"And... he was looking for you."

"Why didn't you? ... Nevermind." Sara went to leave and then turned back to him. "Goodbye, Hodges."

A smile returned to the tech's face. "Oh, well I hope you have ..."

He talked while Sara turned around, ignored him and walked away.

Sara went to the office she shared with Nick to find the Texan there. "Hey, I was looking for you."

"So I heard," Sara said as she pocketed her phone. "What's up?"

"Have you checked your email?" Nick asked as he stretched out in his desk chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

"Not in a few hours," Sara went to sit down at her desk and retrieved her laptop. "Why?"

Nick sat up, grabbed a paper off his desk and rolled his chair up to her. "You and I got an email from a representative at a psychological research firm. He wants permission to talk with us about a 2006 case."

"You're kidding," Sara said. She turned on her computer and started her email while she read the paper Nick printed from his email. Although 2006 felt like a lifetime ago, the name on the sheet drew her back to the case like it was yesterday. "Marshall Landry. God, that was a hell of a case."

"Oh yeah. Guy kidnapped, what did we figure? Five people? Left them to rot in a basement."

"Yeah. Buried four of them, with one survivor."

"If you could call it surviving. Harold Cummings was out of his mind when we found him," Nick said as he stood up and looked over Sara's shoulders. "See that email from Connor Headley? That's the one."

Sara clicked on the email, which read:

To: Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes, Las Vegas Crime Lab

From: Connor Headley, Evaluation and Management Research and Psychological Services, Sunrise, Nevada

Re: Research interview concerning the case of the State of Nevada v. Marshall Landry IV

Ms. Sidle and Mr. Stokes,

As listed above, my name is Connor Headley, and I represent Evaluation and Management Research and Psychological Services, Sunrise, Nevada. We are a psychological research firm that works in various areas of case management, legal documentation, organizational structure and human resources for both organizations and individuals.

Currently I am on retainer for a client who is interested in a psychological analysis of the case involving Mr. Landry and his victims. As such, we are conducting investigative interviews with those who were in contact with my client and Mr. Landry during the time of his attacks. These interviews will not be used in litigation; rather the interviews will be compiled to record Mr. Landry's actions and how it adversely affected victims and their mental well-beings. As crime scene investigators, your knowledge on the scene could help identify critical markers of both the psyche of the perpetrator and of the victims during different stages of abuse.

I have cleared my research credentials with the undersheriff, who allowed me to inquire you both for assistance in this matter. If possible, I would like to speak with you both at your convenience within the next few days.

My contact information can be found below. I thank you in advance for any and all consideration you give to this matter.

Best regards,

Connor Headley

Sara looked at Nick. "Who do you think his client is?"

Nick shrugged. "Maybe Harold Cumming's family is questioning whether he is mentally capable to handle all that money he made."

"You mean stole," Sara said. "That man was no angel, Nick. We both know that."

"Yeah, but I don't think what he did warranted keeping him in isolated in a dungeon in the dark for a week," Nick shuddered at the thought. His own experience in that makeshift grave still gives him nightmares.

"You're right. It's didn't," Sara said. "So what do you think?"

"I say get it over with," Nick said. "I mean, you're going out of the country soon. Let's just get it done."

"All right, but let's not do this separate..."

"I agree," Nick replied as he dialed Headley's number.

* * *

Nick left a message for Headley, who called back a little over an hour later. Nick and Sara spoke to the researcher over the speaker phone. "OK. That's sounds' good, Mr. Headley. We will see you at your facility in two days."

"Thank you, Mr. Stokes. Ms. Sidle. I appreciate the time. I look forward to seeing you both soon."

Nicked pushed the button to end the call. "So I guess it's up to us to give him what he needs about the case."

"Well, we were posted as the leads on the case and testified at Landry's trial," Sara said. "Makes sense to call us."

"Yeah, but Grissom worked a hell of a long time on it, too," Nick said. Then a thought struck him. "Yeah... he did work on it with us a lot."

Sara looked at his co-worker dubiously. "He was our supervisor, Nick. That's what he did with a lot of the cases."

But Nick continued. "Were you two?..."

"What?"

"You know?..."

"Were Gil and I seeing each other at the time?"

Nick chuckled. "He sounds like a completely different person when you call him that."

"Yes, he can be a completely different person, and that's why I love him," Sara said, garnering a sweet smile from the sentimental Stokes. "Now, stop trying to figure out when he and I started having sex. It's creepy."

"You were having sex with who?" said Greg, who wore a shit-eating grin on his face as he stood outside the door. "Does HR know you are having this conversation?"

Sara shook her head at the comment and refocused her attention on her laptop. But instead of a hello, Nick grabbed a ball off Sara's desk and tossed it at Greg, causing the younger man to think fast or take a tennis ball to the face.

"Nice catch, Greggo" Nick said. "You finish up that messy B&E with DB?"

"Yeah," Greg said, throwing the ball back to Nick. "At the very least we had some good news for the family."

"Oh yeah? What?" Nick asked. "Winning lottery ticket?"

"In a way," Greg said. "We found the family's dog tied up in the shed. Looked like he was drugged somehow. Poor pooch."

Just then, Sara's head popped up from her computer. She looked noticeably panicked. "Sar?" Greg asked. "You OK?"

She looked at Greg with an empty stare, and then hastily grabbed her things. "I need to call Gil."

"OK," Greg said. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah... I don't know...," Sara found her cellular, but she still patted her pockets desperately searching for something.

Greg spied her keys under some papers on her desk. "Here they are, Sara," Greg said sympathetically, handing them to her.

"Thanks. I gotta go."

She shot out of the office before either of them could say goodbye.

"What the?..." Nick asked. "Think somethin's wrong with Grissom?"

Greg just knew it wasn't that. "I think that might have something to do with Hank."

* * *

Sara punched the numbers of her voice mail as she speed-walked to her car. Once inside, she heard the full message her husband sent. She had heard the first two sentences before:

"Sara, it's me. Call me."

But she never heard anything beyond the pause he made. She wish she had heard the next part of the message before now:

"… It's about Hank. I'm at Amalia's brother's house. Rene's house. Here is the number. Please call as soon as you can. I … I'm kind of lost here."

She berated herself for not taking the time to listen to more of the message. It was such a busy shift she hardly had time to stop and think about anything.

Including Hank. _Oh God, _she thought. _Our baby._

She wanted to call him right away. Hell, she wanted to get on a plane and wrap her arms around him. But instead of trying to reach him from her sketchy cellular, Sara thought best to go home and call from the landline.

Once inside, she put her bag down and listened to the message again to write down Rene's number. Then she made a beeline for the cordless phone. She could feel her heart beat in her chest as she waited for him to answer the ring.

But all it did was ring. He didn't answer.

Sara hung up the phone after 10 rings. She looked at her phone with stunned disbelief. Where the hell was he?

* * *

_A/N: Reviews/comments appreciated_


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 5**  
After the phone call from the strange woman, Grissom figured he would walk the four blocks to his apartment. He was awake and uncomfortable in Rene's studio. And he figured there would be no way Sylvie Martin would have waited four hours outside his place.

In the wee hours of the morning, the streets of his Paris neighborhood were draped in darkness. The only sound he heard was his feet upon the pavement as he slowly walked. There were so many different reasons for his slow gait: a cautious nature as he made his way to the apartment in the dark; the exhaustion that plagued his bones; and just the thought of entering that apartment and seeing Hank's leash hanging from the keyholder next to the door.

As Grissom continued his journey in the dark, his thoughts floated about Sara. The comfortability of their relationship had ebbed in the last few months. Busy with their separate responsibilities, it was difficult to maintain the long-distance marriage. Conversations waned from a nightly ritual to a few times each week.

Grissom's mind flitted back to when she first arrived for five days some three weeks ago. When he picked her up at the airport, she resembled a woman tired from a long journey. As they sat in the back of the taxi to get to their apartment, Sara leaned back and closed her eyes for the entire ride.

But once inside the apartment, they attacked one another with craven intimacy. She grunted as she quickly stripped him of his clothes, her hand immediately taking hold of him. Her strokes strong, urgent, almost brutal. As he felt himself becoming stiff and mad with need, he practically ripped open her shirt and jeans and turned her around to penetrate her from behind. Hearing her passionate scream he thrust harder into her until she managed to stand upright and turn around. They found each others' eyes, dark and feral. She took his hand and dragged him to the bedroom. Their frantic lovemaking focused on the desperate need to erase the despair they suffered from being apart.

And yet, moments after sharing their love, they laid back in bed and were silent with one another. Yes, silence is not unusual in a relationship, especially one that has been fostered for years, and Sara and Grissom didn't always need words to convey their feelings.

But this time the silence seemed different to Grissom. In those moments in bed, he felt as if neither he nor Sara knew what to say to the other. He watched as Sara turned her head to face the window of the bedroom. Her face reflected an emotion he couldn't quite name, yet he knew her features mirrored his own at that moment.

He knew their love was greater than satisfying carnal needs; he thought their relationship had journeyed past that point years and years ago. Yet, why would that awkwardness exist?

Stress. Uncertainty. Some fear mixed with trepidation. They all combined to create an aura that blanketed them both. Perhaps they were at another crossroad in their relationship.

As he padded through the darkness, Grissom tripped on the sidewalk, but caught himself before he could fall. At that moment he realized he was only a few steps from his apartment door. Grissom took a quick glance of his surroundings. Although it was dark and difficult to see a long distance, it seemed, as predicted, Sylvie Martin was nowhere to be found.

Grissom extracted his keys and opened the door to the apartment. He avoided turning on the lights so he wouldn't be able to see anything that reminded him of Hank.

But that precaution seemed futile because the ghost of Hank was everywhere. Grissom could smell the pooch the minute he stepped through the door.

Yet, he kept the lights off and headed in the direction of the makeshift bar just off the kitchen. Feeling the few bottles on the shelf, he grabbed one and then took a few careful steps toward the kitchen. He placed the bottle on the counter, and then moved his hand across one set, then another set of cabinet doors. He opened the door, procured a small glass, and placed it next to the bottle on the counter. He poured himself a healthy portion without spilling a drop or coming anywhere near the top of the glass, something he could have done in his sleep.

With his drink in one hand, he used his other hand to feel the wall as he took measured steps to the bedroom. He headed straight to the nightstand and put down his drink. Then he sat down on the bed. In silence and in the dark, he took off his shoes and kicked them away. He took off his pants and shirt and threw them in a pile somewhere in the room. He needed a shower, but instead he turned to the nightstand, picked up the tumbler and took a slow drink.

* * *

Sara tried Rene's number two more times. At first she thought she might have rung the wrong number. She checked the number three times from the voice mail before dialing, but she was still greeted with ringing and no answer.

It had been a while since Grissom left the message. Taking a shot in the dark, Sara picked up the phone one more time. She mouthed the numbers she had committed to memory as she punched them on the cordless handset and took a deep breath as she awaited the connection.

Sara could imagine the apartment as she heard the line ring. Maybe Grissom went home after being at Rene's for a few hours.

"Oui?"

She was right. "Gil? Honey?"

"Sara... oh Sara."

Sara let out a sob. "Oh honey, when did it happen?"

"This afternoon... we were on the couch together, and he just looked at me... There was nothing Dr. Malle could do."

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry," Sara felt horrible she was thousands of miles away. She knew her husband needed her presence, but instead they had to use the telephone lines as their lifeline. Sure they've done this for more than a year, but at a time like this, it just sucks. "Gil, I wish I was there with you. And for Hank. I know he loved every second he spent with you."

"He loved being with you, too," Grissom replied, fighting back the urge to cry. He let out a heavy sigh.

Sara stayed silent on the other line. Being so far away just sucks, she thought. They stayed silent for a couple of moments. Sara tried to think of the best thing to say to break the silence, until Grissom spoke again.

"He especially liked when you sang to him."

Sara let out a chuckle, which Grissom knew morphed from a sob. "You think he liked my singing?"

"Of course he did. I do, too."

"He would howl at me sometimes."

"Only when you sang with a glass of wine. But I think he was singing with you."

"You think so?"

"I do."

"Liar," Sara teased. Sara heard Grissom drink something and then there was a clink of a glass on a hard surface. "You sang to him too."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Grissom said in a deadpan voice.

While Grissom's light tone soothed Sara, she had a feeling what he was drinking in the wee hours of his morning. But she didn't want to break the lightness. So she let it drop, for now. "Oh, I heard you singing to him. You probably thought you were being sneaky but I've heard you."

"Hmm..." Grissom said. "Unless you have evidence, Mrs. Grissom."

"Yeah right," Sara said. "Gil, you remember when you left Hank with me the first time and he dragged my all my underwear out of the hamper?"

Grissom laughed softly, "I told you that was all his idea."

They continued to share memories of their beloved pooch. How he would defend Sara till the death against the squirrel they encountered on runs in the park. How Hank always greeted Grissom before Sara when they were asleep in bed because even Hank knew Sara was grumpy when she first woke up. How Hank probably agreed with everything Grissom stood for — except the cockroaches.

"He hated your racing cockroaches," Sara said.

"I got rid of them, didn't I?" Grissom said.

"Yeah you did," Sara said, with love reflected in her voice. "You were a good daddy to him. … I'm sorry I wasn't there with you, Gil."

"I know, dear."

"We had to do some field work before shift tonight, and I never got to fully listen to your message..."

"Sara. Stop. I know."

Sara heard the clinking of the glass again. "Gil, I'm worried about you."

"Sara, I'll be fine..."

Sara knew the grogginess and heaviness of her husband's voice, and it was mixing with a slur from what she suspected was his "scotch medication." "Bad migraine?"

"I think it should be expected."

"I know, but you shouldn't be drinking alcohol with the migraine," Sara said, almost timidly. "It won't help you feel better, Gil."

Grissom was caught, but instead of denying it, he took a sip before he spoke again. "I'm not sure you're right, dear."

Sara let it drop, but not completely. "I'm still worried about you, honey. When was the last time you ate something?"

Grissom rolled his eyes. He was going to spit out an answer, but he honestly couldn't remember the last time he ate.

His silence was not lost on Sara. During her last visit, she noticed how Grissom had lost some more weight. It's not like a little weight loss wasn't healthy, but it was more than a little. And Grissom was a wonderful cook who enjoyed that activity, but Sara knew he no longer engaged in that relaxing activity in his small apartment. Even when Sara spent time there, she would remind him if they would eat a meal. Once he was reminded, he would go to the market and cook for her. But it worried her that the kitchen was fully stocked with essentials. That wasn't like him and his meticulous nature.

She knew he had been worried about Hank, but Sara couldn't shake that something else was wrong. Their temporary separation had turned longer than she expected, but she thought he was OK with it. Things had been so busy for them both, and with Hank declining, she knew it was best for Grissom to stay put and for Sara to come up when she could.

Problem was it wasn't like going from Vegas to Henderson. It was a lot harder and more expensive than that.

"So..." Sara continued. "I'll take that as an 'I don't remember?'"

"I suppose so," Grissom said softly. "I promise to eat something."

"Don't make me call Amalia."

Grissom shook his head and smiled. "Honey, please don't do that."

Sara let out a soft chuckle. "Speaking of Amalia, why are you at her brother's studio, Gil?"

Grissom sat up straight on the bed. He didn't share with Sara the urgency and trouble of getting Hank to the vet's office or losing him and staying with him in the exam room. It was just too rough to deal with right now.

But it never crossed his mind to share with her how he and Amalia found Sylvie at the doorstep. He wanted to forget about that moment. And he did... until Sara asked why he was at Rene's.

"I... I just couldn't go back to the apartment."

"Oh, yeah. Of course." Sara seemed genuinely concerned, almost remorseful for asking.

Now Grissom felt guilty. "It's just... Amalia drove me home from Dr. Malle's and she suggested I stay with her and Denis, but I just couldn't..."

"You wanted to be alone."

_God I love this woman,_ Grissom thought. "Amalia suggested I stay at Rene's, since he is out of town. I was going back to the apartment to change and go to work, but I woke up early and just wanted to head home."

"Oh. Well, that was nice of her," Sara said. "Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yeah. I just need sleep."

"Gil, we don't need to talk about this now, but the trip is coming up..."

Grissom had forgotten about that, too. And Grissom needed a clear head to engage in that conversation. "Can we talk about it another day, honey? I just think I need to sleep and …"

"No. I understand, Gil. I just didn't want you to forget."

"I won't. I promise."

There was a lot more to talk about, but Sara could tell her husband needed to rest. As much as she hated to, she needed to end the conversation. "OK. I love you, baby. I wish I was there with you."

"I wish you were too, Sara."

"Get some rest, and don't forget to eat something after you wake up."

"Yes, my love," Grissom said softly with a smile. "I love you, Sara."

"I love you, Gil. Good night." They exchanged a kiss across the phone line and hung up.

Grissom reclined back down on the bed. He hated that he lied to Sara. But it wasn't truly a lie; he simply didn't supply all the information.

Who was he kidding? It was a lie. But since Grissom dodged Sylvie, that would be the end of it. No harm, no foul.

Or so he thought.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Reviews and comments are appreciated


	7. Chapter 6

A/N: I do not owe anything related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 6**

It was two days later when Sara and Nick agreed to meet with Headley at the Sunrise Research. Headley had meetings that morning and asked if they could meet at 11 a.m., adding there was an excellent breakfast place just a few blocks from the facility where law enforcement are given a discount, if the duo wanted to have breakfast before meeting up with Headley. Nick was sold on that idea when Headley mentioned they offered authentic tacos al pastor for breakfast.

That morning, Sara got off shift early at 5 a.m. and asked Nick to pick her up in around 8 so they could ride to Sunrise together. She wanted to talk to Grissom about her upcoming trip and didn't want to call Paris too late in Grissom's day. She dialed his office number at Sorborne and was greeted by Amalia.

"Bureau du Professeur Grissom. Comment puis-je vous aider?"

"Bon après-midi, Amalia," Sara said.

"Madame Grissom!" Amalia replied as she looked at her watch. It was 2:30 p.m. in Paris, which meant it was 5:30 a.m. in Las Vegas. "Are you the early bird who catches the worm this morning?"

Sara laughed. "Oh, no. You're telling insect-related jokes. My husband is a bad influence on you."

"Actually, a worm is not an insect, but I believe the... oh how do you say? Insect larvae... yes... they look like worms."

"Amalia?"

"Oui, madame?"

"You sounded just like Grissom if he had a Portuguese accent."

Amalia let out a hearty laugh. "Nonsense. His phrases... they... How do you say? Spawn on me?"

Sara laughed. "Grow on you?"

"OUI! Merci!" Amalia exclaimed with a laugh. "And it is only because I enjoy working for the Professeur."

Sara could relate. She enjoyed working with Grissom, too. "How is he doing?"

With that question, Amalia's disposition immediately changed and she sighed. "He is sad. Quite sad."

Sara didn't know what to say. Of course he was sad. "Amalia, thank you for picking him up and making sure he was OK."

"Oh, Sara. It was my pleasure," Amalia said.

"And please say thank you to Rene, too. That was kind of you both to offer that to Gil."

"That was an absolute necessity, madam. I know Professeur only wanted to go home but she had to show up...," Amalia's voice morphed to a whisper and Sara couldn't quite understand what she said and before Sara could ask, Amalia continued. "Professeur is in his office now. Would you like to speak to him?"

"Yes, but Amalia?"

"Oui, madame?"

"Do you know if he has eaten today?"

Amalia smiled. It was good to know the Professeur was so loved by Sara. "I made him a sandwich this morning. I will check now."

Amalia put the line on hold and returned to the line a short time later. "It is half eaten. Bonsoir Sara."

"Bonsoir, Amalia."

The line went silent for a second until Grissom picked up. "Good morning, Sara."

His voice sounded distant. He was sad. All Sara wanted to do was make him smile. "Hi honey. How has your day been?"

"Did Amalia tell you I ate?"

Even with his melancholy, Sara knew there was a glint of mischief in his voice. "It's important for me to keep tabs on you. That is one of my many jobs, you know."

"I seem to remember a time when you thought I ate too much."

"No, that's not true," Sara quickly replied. "I might have said you were eating the wrong things; not that you were eating too much."

Grissom smiled on the other line. "Fair enough. Yes, I ate half a sandwich and an apple. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

Sara's sarcastic tone warmed his heart. "How was your shift?"

"Fairly uneventful. I have that meeting with the research guy about the Landry case," Sara said.

"The Landry case? You mean from years ago?" Grissom couldn't remember hearing about this, but God knows his memory had been sketchy lately. "Did you tell me about this before?"

"No. No, that's right. I hadn't had a chance to tell you yet. Nick and I got an email request a couple of days ago..." Sara stopped in her tracks. That was one of the things that happened right after Hank died. She responded to Headley's email before her husband's phone message, which still made her feel guilty. "Anyway, we just got a call about it and Nick and I are going to Sunrise to discuss the case."

"Well, what is it about? The Landry case? As in Marshall Landry?"

Sara marveled at his memory. "You remember it? That was in 2006."

"I remember it," Grissom said solemnly. "What is this person researching?"

"The case itself," Sara said, chronicling the email request and the phone conversation she and Nick had with Headley before scheduling the meeting. "Nick thinks maybe the family of the only survivor might be making a case for his sanity."

"The only alleged survivor," Grissom clarified.

That was a nugget that Sara had forgotten. Grissom didn't think that Harold Cummings was the only person who escaped Marshall Landry. But it was a gut feeling more than anything. There was no hard evidence that Landry kidnapped anyone other than the four bodies found and Cummings.

"'So sayeth the almighty Gilbert Grissom.' Wasn't that was Conrad said about your theory?" Sara recalled.

"Ah yes. One of Conrad's crowning achievements in sassy comebacks," Grissom recalled. "The ass."

Sara laughed. Grissom didn't curse often, but when he did, it was completely appropriate. "You'll have to meet his daughter the next time you are in town."

"Oh. Would she concur with my assessment?"

"Actually, at times, she probably would," Sara said with a smile. But she needed to get on task. "Gil, we need to talk about my upcoming trip with the Hawthorne Committee."

Grissom had avoided this conversation for long enough. "Are you ready for the trip?" he asked.

"I am," Sara said. "I know that you wanted to finish up stuff in Paris next week, but I still feel like this might be a mistake not going together."

Grissom pondered his next thought. "Sara, you know how I feel about this organization."

"I do, but maybe your idea of them is skewed by what happened last time."

The Hawthorne Committee had been courting the couple for a research grant to be completed in the Costa Rican rainforests. Sara was scheduled to visit their facilities to talk about the grant possibilities, dimensions and requirements. It was a meeting she hoped to take with Grissom, as they had four months prior after the Hawthorne Committee first invited them as a grant nominee.

Before taking that on-site trip, Grissom seemed favorable of the organization — its mission and goals. But once on the trip, Grissom had reservations about the way the organization ran its everyday operations. He found them to be sloppy at handling research and on-field retrieval. Their living conditions were overly primitive because Grissom believed they were poorly designed.

It didn't help that Grissom became ill on the third day from a case of dysentery. Although staffers said he probably accidentally brushed his teeth with local water, instead of his "safe batch," which is given to every team member, Grissom said his batch was not sufficiently filtered and sanitized.

Sara and Grissom shared their safe batch water. On one morning Grissom noticed there was only enough for one person that day. He went to the staffing tent to get another batch, and was told he was using too much of the resource. When he said it was not just for him, but his wife as well, the staffer balked. They argued and Grissom finally said, "I'm not asking for state secrets or a pound of gold; All I'm asking for is a clean batch of water."

The staffer left him and returned in a huff with a batch. Grissom seemed leary, but used the batch and made sure Sara used the older batch. Grissom got sick later that day, and when he and Sara returned from the medical tent, only the new batch of water was gone. And the older batch had a different, dated tag than it originally had. It looked to Grissom that the tag was switched.

While Grissom was sure it was the staff's fault he got sick, Sara wasn't as sure. She had seen people being careless many times before during her time overseas. It was possible that her husband made a simple mistake.

After that, things went downhill with Grissom's approval of the organization. They would say funding is ready, and then it fell through. This was not unusual, but Grissom never appreciated the extreme highs and extreme lows presented by Hawthorne representatives.

Fortunately for Grissom, his dysentery could have been much worse and his body avoided severe dehydration. But he knew that it would have been much worse and the fact it happened once leads him to believe it could happen again.

But he knew Sara didn't feel the same way about the organization, and not just because Hawthorne might fund their studies. But along with the funding, Sara put her hopes into Hawthrone because it opened the door for she and Grissom to be together … something that hasn't happen for more than a month at a time for too, too long.

Grissom found it ironic, though, how his experiences with Hawthorne led him to become more and more withdrawn from the idea of going overseas in the rainforest. He had to be truthful with himself; he wasn't a young man anymore and the humidity wreaked havoc on Grissom's joints.

But that was not a truth he believed he could afford to share with Sara. More than anything, Grissom too wanted to be full-time with Sara. No more time apart. So Grissom had to weigh spending time with Sara and hating where he was to not spending time with Sara and being apart. That was one reason why he was adamant about staying in Paris while Sara went overseas. There was a good chance Grissom could firm up a textbook deal through the Sorbonne. If that happened, that might lead to different grant opportunities with different organizations and Grissom could work on the book in Vegas.

He never wanted to share that train of thought with Sara. First because all his plans were truly up in the air and might even be a pipe dream. But he also never wanted to voice too many objections of going overseas with the singular goal of being with her. Even though their relationship seemed on stronger terms, in the back of Grissom's mind there was always the chance that one thread pulled the wrong way will unravel everything they have.

But right here, right now, Grissom had to somehow put Sara at ease about this whole situation. "Maybe my last experience with them should be a good reason for you to go alone," Grissom said. "At this point you will be more objective than I would be."

She stayed silent and Grissom didn't know what to think about that. "Honey, I'm still not certain what to do here in Paris and I think I'll know more by the time you come back."

"Well, we could reschedule the trip."

Grissom knew both from previous conversations and just by the tone of her voice now that Sara didn't want to reschedule. She wanted to go now. "Honey, they might not reschedule with us."

"Yeah, you're right," Sara said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"The opportunity is there for you. Go and let me know what you think," Grissom said. "Just please think about my concerns."

"I will, Gil. Of course I will," Sara said. "OK. Then I'm going to call and confirm for myself. Unless..."

"It's the timing Sara, you know that." Grissom's voice had a tired, defeated quality.

"I know. You have to tie loose ends over there." On one hand Sara was happy he agreed the trip shouldn't be canceled. But on the other hand, Sara suspected Grissom wasn't being totally open with her about his feelings. Yet, she knew her husband. Sometimes he didn't share anything unless he was absolutely ready.

And obviously, he wasn't ready.

"Gil, I'm going to take a nap before that meeting in Sunrise."

"You said Nick is going too, right? You aren't traveling alone to meet this guy?" Grissom said cautiously.

Sara found his concern sweet. "No. Nick is picking me up. We're going to have breakfast then meet up with this guy."

"Good."

"You know Nick remembered you helped with the case," Sara said. "You should have seen his face as the wheels turned in his head."

"What do you mean?" Grissom sounded confused.

"He was thinking, 'The year was 2006. Grissom was hanging around Sara a lot..." Sara said, in her best Nick impersonation.

"Was he trying to guess...?" Grissom didn't even want to finish the statement.

"Yup."

Grissom sighed. He noticed someone was opening his office door and standing just outside. He could tell it was a woman. Thinking it was Amalia, he simply returned his attention back to his phone call. "Sara, I don't know why you don't just tell Nick and Greg we've never had sex. Maybe that would shut them up."

"Baby," Sara said, feeling a longing in the pit of her stomach, "there's no way they would believe that since they see me bolt out as soon as I can when it's time to see you."

Grissom smiled. "Go get ready for your date, honey."

"I love you, Gil."

"I love you, too, Sara."

Grissom hung up the phone and scratched his beard. He hadn't shaved in almost a week and it was starting to get scruffy. He could tell someone was at the door. It wasn't like Amalia to intrude like that, but maybe something was urgent.

"Amalia? Is something wrong?" Grissom called.

The door opened, but it wasn't Amalia who stood there. It was Sylvie Martin. "Professeur Grissom. I heard you are still feeling sad and knew I must come over."

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Reviews and comments are always appreciated


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: I owe nothing related to CSI_

* * *

**CHAPTER 7**

"Mademoiselle Martin," Grissom said in a quiet tone. "I was just having private conversation."

"Oh, do not worry," Sylvie said as she sauntered in his office. "I was not listening." She stood in front of his desk and lithely placed a strand of hair behind her ear before letting her hand caress her long locks down the curve of her face. "I was just outside your office. I needed a favor from Amalia."

Grissom nodded at her. "Is she not here?"

Sylvie sat on the edge of Grissom's desk and touched the tops of the different picture frames that faced his view. "She is now in my office helping my secretary complete a task on the computer. She is so gifted, is she not?"

"Yes, she is," Grissom replied. "And I'm sure she will be finished in no time."

Sylvie offered a wicked smile, that quickly morphed into a pleasant one. "Yes, she will." Sylvie saw a photo of Grissom with Hank lying on top of a stack of papers and picked it up. "I also wanted to offer my sympathies concerning your puppy." Sylvie turned the photo so he could see it. "This is ….?"

Grissom took the photo from Sylvie. "Hank. Yes. He passed away two days ago."

"I had just heard today," Sylvie said as she nonchalantly turned around different photo frames to view them. "Professeur Roijan told me it happened the night of the board gathering?"

Grissom gave a skeptical look. "Yes. That's right. So, you just heard?"

"Oui, this morning. And I would have offered my sympathies that evening, had I known." Sylvie leaned a little across Grissom's desk. "I wanted to send a card to your appartement. When I saw the address listed for you, I realized you live in the same appartement building as my sister."

Grissom's face visibly changed. _Was that why she was in front of the building? Could Amalia and I been wrong?_

Sylvie picked up a picture frame and continued. "After we left for dinner, my sister called for me to come by her residence. If I had known about your puppy, I would have quickly offered my regrets to you. I am so sorry, Gil."

Grissom felt a bit embarrassed. "Please. It's fine. I appreciate the thought."

"Your... wife?" Sylvie said, looking at the picture in her hand. "She is not here for you now?"

"No," Grissom tried not to offer any emotion in his response. "As you know, Sara works in the states."

Sylvie offered a sad smile. "It's a shame. A lovely woman such as your wife not here for you at this time of sadness."

Grissom could only shrug. "We will see each other soon enough."

Sylvie placed the picture frame back on Grissom's desk. "Are you still thinking of leaving us?" Again Sylvie leaned across the desk.

Grissom smiled. "I am still thinking of all the options."

Sylvie stood from the desk, and went from the front to Grissom's left side, once again sitting on the edge of the desk. "Well, Professeur Gil, I think it is in your best interest to stay at the Sorbonne. Professionally, it would be, how do you Americans say? Worth your while."

"I believe that was what you told me before this last term when I returned to the Sorbonne," Grissom replied. "However, unfortunately, nothing has moved forward or been decided about backing my proposal for the entomology text."

"Professeur," Sylvie purred. "Is that discouragement I hear in your voice?"

Grissom smiled. "I am simply being realistic." Seeing a look of confusion on Sylvie's face sparked Grissom to elaborate.

"As you know, Mademoiselle, I have completed my proposal and offered it to the department heads," Grissom said. "I am hoping, as promised more than once by you, that I should know soon of their decision. Should decision be make, I shall weigh that as I consider what is best for me and for my family, and that might mean looking for funding elsewhere if I still want to pursue a textbook."

Sylvie offered a big smile. "I did not know you had children?"

Grissom smiled back. "Sara. Sara is my family."

Sylvie cocked her head in a playful manner. "That is so sweet. But, as far as leaving us after the term, I believe, I could convince you otherwise."

"I'm sure you have ideas of your own about my place at Sorbonne...," Grissom replied.

"Oh I do," Sylvie interrupted.

Grissom felt uncomfortable under her stare, so he returned his attention to papers on his desk and continued his statement. "... however, at the moment, I believe my proposal outlines the benefits of the entomology text I will to pursue, and how it could be compiled, composed and collaborated remotely. I believe I was told the board would let me know in a meeting next week."

"Gil," Sylvie said teasingly. "Your memory is failing you." She looked at the clusters of reminder notes of Grissom's desk written by Amalia. "I am certain that your gifted secretary left you a note our dinner meeting with my staff prior to meeting the board. It is mandatory you meet with us and submit your proposal before the board makes any decision"

Grissom sat up again. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember agreeing to a meeting with you and your staff."

Grissom looked curiously upon his desk, but it was Sylvie who plucked it from a corner of the desk. "You see. In two days time."

She held her hand out and presented the note to Grissom, who grabbed it and received a shock when Sylvie touched his hand.

She giggled at the action. "Kismet, Professeur?"

"Static electricity," he said, without looking at her. His attention was on the handwritten note. "I don't remember even telling Amalia about this."

Sylvie took a step back and walked to the front of his desk again. "It has been a long few days for you, Professeur. But I will not take offense."

Grissom looked up. He seemed flustered by the whole situation. "Oh, I didn't mean to forget... it's just..."

"I understand, Professeur. But your proposal, it is so important to me," Sylvie once again sat upon the head of his desk. "Gil, I probably should not state this, but there is a grave possibility that you could lose professional credibility if you leave now."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if you were to stay here in Paris, I believe there is a great possibility that the department would secure your rights to your textbook and translate it in more than seven languages," Sylvie said. "It could be a lucrative offer for you."

Sylvie picked up the photo of Hank again, eyeing the back of the photo where Sara had scrawled a message and a timestamp of the photo. "It could be beneficial for your family. Your wife, she works in a dangerous field, oui?"

"She works in crime scene investigation."

"I am sure you would feel better if she was not in harms way," Sylvie said, adding as she put the photo of Hank back on the desk directly under Grissom's gaze. "Such a beautiful puppy."

Grissom took a deep breath, but before he could say anything, Sylvie stood up and continued. "A lucrative deal could protect … your family. Please, meet me for a quick dinner after work today. We need to discuss a few things so I can share it with my staff and have things more complete for our next meeting."

"Perhaps it would be better if we did that via email," Grissom suggested.

Sylvie stood her ground. "Professeur. You forget. I am on your side. I would hate for circumstances to change because you are being... aloof … to having a friendly conversation between two educational professionals. Being stubborn does not help your cause, monsieur."

Grissom felt dumbstruck. "The board has made no decision on this speculation of yours. In fact, for the last three months they have dismissed the notion of wanting to back the text..."

"As I said," Sylvie said, walking to the door. "Without me, the possibility might disappear. And there is no reason for us not to discuss possibilities."

Grissom sat quietly. So Sylvie upped the ante. "Please, it will allow us to toast to your puppy, Hank. Oui?"

Grissom nodded. "Fine. I am free for an hour after class."

"Very good," Sylvie said before she smiled and left the room.

Grissom rubbed his face, frustrated about not knowing what the future might be and why he couldn't remember much about the last few days. While he enjoyed teaching at the Sorbonne, he came back hoping to gain financial backing for his entomology/criminology textbook. Although he was welcomed as a professor, any open doors of backing his text have been closed. But that just meant he could return to the states and seek funding on his own. Not an easy or quick path, but one he could tread.

But if there was a possibility of funding and translation here, that changes the whole landscape. The only problem, is that notion seemed to go against all the lack of evidence Grissom has encountered for the past half year. Sylvie could be trying to open a door for him.

Or she could be playing him for a fool. Grissom knew she enjoyed holding puppet strings. She just wondered why after not being involved in this conversation she suddenly wanted to be so heavily involved.

Then an unexpected thought struck him. What if he no longer had the desire to do a textbook? Then what?

Grissom leaned back in his chair and looked at his bottom left drawer. He opened it and saw his bottle of scotch. He took it out to pour himself a shot. That was when he noticed It was not as full as he thought it might be. Maybe he had be taking a belt or two too many lately, and now he was forgetting about appointments.

He quickly drank the shot and rubbed his face again. He put the bottle back in his desk and returned his attention to work on his desk. He heard Amalia return to her desk and saw her out of her door. He felt embarrassed when she saw him see her, although he had no idea why.

Amalia slowly approached his office door and knocked on the half open door, which she had closed shut when he took the call from his wife. "Professeur?"

Grissom looked up with a small, plastered smile on his face. "Amalia."

"I'm sorry, Professeur. Mademoiselle Martin asked for assistance..."

"That's fine."

Amalia stood in silence in front of his desk. "Are you unwell, Professeur?"

"I'm fine."

"You look... lost."

Grissom looked up and sighed. At times, Amalia's word choices for English colloquialisms were incorrect. He wished that was the case right now, even if he wouldn't admit that to her. "I'm fine. I have work to finish before class."

"Of course, Professeur." Amalia left and closed the door behind her, leaving Grissom to the work on his desk.

Almost two hours passed with Grissom working nonstop at various papers on his desk and articles on his laptop. A knock on the door disturbed him.

"Entrer."

"Professeur. I know you are off to class, but there are documents in need of your signature."

Grissom got up, with his loaded briefcase in his hand. "Could I sign them after class and leave them on your desk?"

"Oui, monsieur."

Grissom placed a friendly hand upon Amalia's shoulder as he passed her on the way out of his office. "Bonne soirée."

"Merci. Bonne soirée." Amalia watched her boss leave the office, then went to his desk to place the documents she needed signed. While she didn't usually clean off his desk, she did manage things in pile for him. Mail in one pile. Appointment reminders in another. She saw the photos of Hank, and smiled. She did not touch them and went to leave.

But something caught her attention — a framed photo laid face down upon his desk.

Amalia turned it over and discovered it was Sara's picture. She frowned as she placed it upright and facing towards Grissom's chair.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Reviews and comments are appreciated


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: I do not own CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 8**

Sara just couldn't sleep after talking with Grissom. Between wondering what was truly going on in her husband's head and thinking about her trip in a week. She started packing and shopping lists, brought down the appropriate bags and inspected her shoeware.

She had just finished drying her hair after her shower when Nick arrived to pick her up. "Hey," she said to Nick as she opened the door. "Just give me a few more minutes."

Nick took a look around the room. "What happened here? Tornado?"

"Funny. Really funny," Sara said as she returned from her bedroom putting on a light jacket. "I think of it as organized chaos."

"Whatever you say, Sidle. You got the directions?"

"You're driving and you don't have the directions?"

Nick sighed. "I have an idea. I figured you mapquested it or whatever."

Sara pulled out a folded piece of paper from her pocket. "I got directions."

"See? Now, let's get on the damn road. I hear tacos calling my name."

"OK, but we need to talk about what we are going to go over with Headley..."

"Yeah, yeah. We've got an hour drive. Sooner if the road's clear," Nick said as he walked out of the door with Sara behind him.

* * *

Grissom looked distressed and upset. Sara knew that look; he was ready to blow up. But instead, he just said he was sorry over and over.

"Gil. You can come with me." She continued to look at him but walked backwards.

He continued to say sorry and stayed rooted in his spot. Sara watched him. He moved his lips but no sound came from his mouth

"What are you saying?" Sara asked the question but didn't stop walking.

Then she heard her name calling her name, but it wasn't Grissom's voice. "Sar? Sar!?" She couldn't ignore it.

"SARA SIDLE GRISSOM!"

Sara woke with a start. She looked out the window of Nick's SUV.

"Well, I thought that might do it. Man, waking you up was like raising the dead," Nick said as he shut off the engine. "You OK?"

Sara rubbed her face. "Did I sleep the whole ride?"

Nick laughed. "By the time we got to the end of the street. I put this place in my GPS, but reception is spotty out here. Passed by the place a couple of times before getting here, because you, Miss Sleeping Beauty, held on to the directions."

"Sorry," Sara said as she got out of the SUV.S he walked toward the diner's front door, with Nick quick to her side after he locked the door. "Does this mean I pay for breakfast?"

"Nah," Nick said. "It means I'm not trusting you with directions."

The diner was almost empty. Since it was almost 10 a.m., the breakfast crowd had come and gone. The waitress led Sara and Nick to a table close to the other two customers in the place. Before they were seated, Sara excused herself for the restroom, so the waitress gave Nick two menus. "Can I get you two some coffee and juice?"

"That's be great. I'll take orange juice, and she'll...," Nick had no idea what juice Sara drinks. "Hell, give her orange, too. Everybody likes orange, right?"

The waitress responded positively to Nick's charms and went to retrieve the drinks. As Nick stared at the menu, a customer came behind him to the table. "Excuse me," he said as he put a bottle of honey on the table behind the other condiments. "I pilfered this from the table earlier. Didn't think someone would be sitting here. Sorry."

Nick looked up, seeing the man was already turning to leave. "No problem. Neither one of us are gonna use it, if you want to take it back."

The customer stopped. "Oh, no, I'm done with it. Going for the tacos this morning?"

Nick gave the man a smile. "Drove an hour for 'em."

The man smiled and left Nick to peruse his menu, even though he knew what he would get. Sara got to the table, just as they waitress brought the drinks.

"Would you mind settling an argument between my friend and me?" Nick said to the waitress.

"I'll try, honey."

"Would you consider tacos al pastor a proper breakfast?"

"Without a doubt," the waitress said eyeing Nick the whole time, not even looking at Sara. "Is that what you want, hon? Maybe medium heat, biscuits and gravy and a side of homefries so good you'll want to spank your fanny and beg for more."

Nick gave a big smile. "That's an offer I cannot refuse, ma'am. And an offer from a lovely lady," he replied handing in his menu.

The waitress blushed and Sara tried with all her might not to burst out laughing but couldn't stop the comment from exiting her mouth. "He is good at spanking himself, aren't you Nick?"

Nick shot a look at Sara, who just laughed by herself. "I'm just teasing," Sara looked at the waitress. "My husband and I love to tease good, old unattached Nick."

The waitress smiled even wider. "Ma'am, what can we get you?"

"Egg-white omelet with cheese, mushrooms and tomatoes. Hold the home fries." Sara stuck her tongue out at Nick. There would be no spanking come-back.

"Biscuits?"

"How about wheat toast with jam, please."

"You got it, sweetie." And the waitress left.

"I know why you didn't get home fries," Nick said as he leaned across the table.

Sara leaned toward Nick. "Why?"

"You're leaving the spanking to Grissom, aren't you," Nick laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Didn't think I'd get you back, did ya?"

"Very funny, Nick," Sara said. "We'll see how funny you are after you eat all that food that will probably tear up your stomach."

"Nah, stop being a mother hen," Nick said, as he doctored his coffee. "Is that what you do to Grissom about his eating habits?"

Sara's smile faded a bit. "Actually, I wish he was eating a little better these days."

Nick offered a sympathetic nod. "How's he taking to losing Hank? Must be tough on him."

"It is," Sara said. "Hank was with him for 10 years."

Nick looked surprised. "No kidding? I didn't know that."

Sara nodded as she took a sip of her coffee. "I don't think anyone on the team knew, except Catherine. He got him at the animal rescue place in Lincoln County. Middle of nowhere in Rachel, Nevada."

"What was he doing all the way up there?" Nick asked. "What am I saying? It's Grissom. Probably looking for bugs or something."

The waitress brought their food and placed it in front of them, giving a wink to Nick as she said, "You all enjoy."

Sara's smile returned, which made Nick happy. "So, Grissom found Hank as a puppy at that shelter?"

"Jasper Rowe Animal Rescue Park, but, no Hank wasn't exactly a puppy. He was a 3 or 4 years old," Sara said. "But, Gil said he fell in love with Hank on the spot, plus Jasper, the old guy who owned the park, named Hank after Hank Aaron, which sealed the deal for Grissom."

Nick smiled. This was a whole other side of his former boss he never knew... and wished he did. He dug into his food. "He coming with you to the jungle next week?"

Sara shook her head in the negative as she took a sip of coffee, "No. The timing wasn't right for us. Grissom's trying to secure things at Sorbonne. This might be his last shot to get their funding for his text book."

"Yeah," Nick said, as he licked sauce from the tacos off his fingers. "You had mentioned something about a text book. Why the hell wouldn't anyone jump on that offer? Grissom's seen as top dog in the bug community, people would clammer for his textbook."

"That's what I've been telling him, too," Sara said. "But they really have been wishy-washy with their offers at the Sorbonne. He took this last term with them hoping to secure backing, but he said he can't get a read about whether they're going to fund it or not."

"Well, why doesn't he try getting funding in the states?"

"That's a good question," Sara said. She was going to take another bite of omelet, but her appetite suddenly faded. "It's really getting to him, Nick. He won't talk about it too much, but I can just tell..."

Sara stopped talking. Even though Nick was her friend, she still didn't like opening up her emotions about her husband. Even after all these years, their separation, their reunion, their separation again, she still felt like she wanted that bubble for her relationship. To this day, she still thinks about that big "what if" — what if Natalie never took her and Grissom never spilled the beans about their relationship?

Sara felt Nick's sympathetic eyes on her. She smiled at her breakfast companion and took a bite of her omelet. "Anyway... since I took that power nap in the car, we should talk about what we're going to say to Headley?"

Nick took the last gulp of his juice. "Sar, I know you don't like talking about your relationship with Gris, and it probably doesn't help that I tease you so much, but I'm here if you need to talk."

"Yeah, I know Nick."

"Even Sara Sidle might need some advice, now and then, or at least a sounding board," Nick said. "Just because it's your relationship doesn't mean you have to go at it alone."

Sara stared at Nick with a sad, blank look. She knew he was being kind, but his words caused a pain in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she refocused. To help compose herself, she returned to look at Nick and took a sip of her coffee, hoping he wouldn't notice her shaking hand. "Thank you, Nick. I know... it's good to know you're a good friend to me."

Nick watched her. He had known his co-worker and friend for many years. And despite her efforts to keep many people in the dark of her true feelings, there were some people who understood the emotions of Sara behind her silence. And Nick believed he was one of those people.

And he also knew pushing Sara did absolutely no good. "OK, Sar," Nick said. They resumed their meal, and the waitress took their empty plates, but didn't take their coffee mugs, in case they wanted another refill.

"We got 10 minutes before this meeting," Nick said. "At this point should we just wing it?"

"I think so," Sara said, relieved that Nick conceded. "You want some more to drink? Give you another opportunity to flirt."

Nick chuckled. "I was going to, but only because the juice is so tasty."

"You mean like her juicy lips?" Sara added, again trying to hold her mirth. "I'm sure you'd like a taste of her hot biscuits."

"Oh God, Sara. Hot biscuits? Who talks like that?" Nick said, laughing but a little repulsed. "Your pick up lines are gross. You know that don't you?"

"You're just mad you didn't think about them first."

Nick laughed. He knew what Sara was intentionally lightening the mood, so he just went with the flow. "Let's get out of here. I'm sure this research guy is a stickler on time."

Placing tips on the table, the left with their separate checks to pay at the front cashier. Sara stopped in the ladies' room, the two walked out the door to get to the SUV

Their waitress came by the table to get the stray coffee cups she hadn't picked up. She returned to the table with a spray bottle and wipes to clean it for the next diner. She moved aside the condiments to wiped the whole table. She paused for a second. She'd never notice honey on the tables before. She shrugged her head and said aloud to no one in particular, "I bet that tastes good on some hot biscuits."

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Le sigh on the GSR front. Reviews and comments are quite appreciated. Drop a line. I would love to hear from you.


	10. Chapter 9

_A/N: I own nothing related to CSI._

* * *

**CHAPTER 9**

* * *

Sara and Nick arrived at Evaluation and Management Research and Psychological Services with a few minutes to spare. The waiting was small and empty when they arrived, and a receptionist behind paned-glass said Mr. Headley would be with them shortly.

Just as the clock on the wall marked the 11th hour, Connor Headley opened the door to the reception area and approached the CSIs. A tall man with a polished haircut, he wore pressed dress pants and dress shirt without a tie. He did not initiate a handshake, and instead stood with his arms at his side and a pleasant look upon his face. "Ms. Sidle. Mr. Stokes. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Shall we go into the facility?"

Headley extended his arm towards the door he just came from prompting Nick and Sara to move inside the facility. He followed them inside and then walked a step in front of them so he could guide them to the appropriate conference room. The walk through the well-lit, white-walled hallway was silent as they passed by a few different conference rooms, one looking almost exactly like the next. Headley stopped in front of Room 4-d. "Here we are," Headley said as he grabbed the door's handle. "Shall we? Ms. Sidle. Ladies first."

Sara entered and Nick followed suit. Headley strode in the door and made sure it did not slam shut. Inside the room was an intimate, oval table with three chairs situated around its far side arch. Upon it were an omnidirectional microphone set in a stand and what looked like a small receiver.

Headley immediately strode to the middle seat where two stacks of files laid. He motioned for Nick and Sara to take a seat to his left and right. They looked at one another and walked on opposite sides of the table to take a seat. Once Sara had taken her seat, Nick and Headley followed suit.

Headley turned to smile and nod at both Sara and Nick. "I trust you found the facility without a problem?"

Nick and Sara both said yes. "And we found the diner, too. Great recommendation."

"Good. Good," Headley said. "I sometimes forget about that particular establishment, but I was reminded of it by someone else working on this particular project. When I recalled the law enforcement discount, and hearing the hint of your Texas accent, Mr. Stokes, I thought it might be a perfect for you two."

Nick laughed. "I always thought my accent had faded away."

Headley looked at him with a perplexing look. "On the contrary, I believe it is well-defined, as if you wear it like a comfortable coat." Headley then looked at Sara. "However, your colleague here, I cannot seem to place where you are from Ms. Sidle. Although I suspect you might have spent time in the Northeast?"

Now Sara sat perplexed. "You could tell that from my voice?"

Headley kept a straight face for a few seconds and then flashed a wide grin. "No. I must confess. I got that information from a curriculum vitae sent from your lab. It is quite a few years old, but I assumed despite any changes in your life since 2003, you still must have graduated from Harvard."

"You assumed correct, Mr. Headley," Sara said with a smile.

"Oh, I get it," Nick added. "You knew I was from Texas from my curriculum vitae."

Headley turned to Nick and again gave a perplexed look. "No. It was from the accent. As I said before, you wear it like a comfortable coat..."

Nick conceded. "Of course. I had forgotten. I apologize."

"Well, I know your time is valuable, and I understand the need to use our time wisely," Headley said. "Please know your counsel and first-hand knowledge will prove to be invaluable in this research."

"We were wondering exactly what you were hoping to gain from our first-hand knowledge," Sara said. "We did put everything we could in the original report."

"I do have a copy of that, Ms. Sidle, and have studied it thoroughly. I hope to not ask you questions in which the answers can be garnered from that report," Headley said. "If I do, please redirect me so I do not waste your time."

_No-nonsense researcher with a pleasant demeanor,_ Sara thought. From Harvard to Vegas to the jungles of Costa Rica and a few places in between, she had dealt with many different types of researchers with varying personalities. She always appreciated the quirky, non-nonsense ones. So much so, she married one. "I appreciate that Mr. Headley, but if you need any ... clarification on what is written in the original report, please don't hesitate to ask," Sara said. "We're here at your request and realize this is not something that can be accomplished in a short period of time."

Headley nodded his head in approval. "Duly noted, Ms. Sidle. Thank you."

"We were curious about the nature of this meeting," Nick said, trying to use the same language as Headley would. "Is Harold Cumming's family asking for this research?"

"An excellent query, Mr. Stokes, that offers me the perfect segue to the matter at hand," Headley said. "This research does not stem from Mr. Cumming or Marshall Landry, although I can clearly understand why you might make that assumption. It stems from an inquiry from a documentarian."

Nick and Sara looked at one another. What did they get themselves into? "Look, Mr. Headley, we're not interested in participating in something that would glamorize Marshall Landry..." Nick started.

Headley quickly, but politely, cut Nick off. "Oh, no, Mr. Stokes. Colton Chapman, who is a respected documentarian who has documented environmental causes, historical figures, as well as criminology subjects, asked for research about both Marshall Landry and his victims. The aim of the documentary is not glamorize the acts upon the victims or Landry himself. The documentary centers overall on the victims of serial killers who had survived while others had perished. Marshall Landry's actions are not the only ones the documentary hopes to research."

Nick and Sara still looked skeptical and uncomfortable, so Headley continued. "When Mr. Chapman approached us about completing preliminary research for this project, he made it known how the focus should be about how and why a victim would be able to survive after being in the hands of someone who had killed previously." Headley took a paper out of a file folder and read from it. "As Mr. Chapman scribed, 'Was it because of a mistake on the part of the criminal? Was it because the victim took a chance and escaped? Was it because the criminal took pity on his or her victim? Was it an act of God?'"

Headley turned the sheet of paper over and continued to speak. "As I said before, Marshall Landry is not the only case study for this documentary."

"And what role would we play?" Sara asked. "Aren't you better off speaking directly to the victim and Landry?"

Headley smiled at Sara. "Absolutely, Ms. Sidle. And that is also a part of our research, some of which has been completed. But what you offer is an objective viewpoint of the crime scene and the acts overall," Headley said. "That coupled with the perspective of questioning Mr. Landry and offering subjective details about his composure during the questioning — details that might not be documented in your reports — also offers an interesting window into the crime and its outcome."

"Oh, and of course," Headley continued, "You were the first people in contact with Mr. Cummings — Mr. Landry's only surviving victim."

"The only alleged survivor," Sara said under her breath, mimicking the words of her husband.

Although it was spoken softly, Headley caught the comment. "I'm sorry, Ms. Sidle? What did you mean by that?"

Sara shook her head, a bit embarrassed that Headley heard her comment. "My... Our supervisor at the time had believed that Harold Cummings wasn't the only person who 'escaped,' if you will, from Marshall Landry."

Headley scratched his forearm and looked thoroughly flustered. But he was indeed interested. "I don't remember reading anything of that nature in your reports. Did I miss something?"

As Headley looked through his papers, Nick sat up straighter in his chair and piped up,"You know, I had forgotten about that till you said that, Sar," Nick turned to Headley. "You didn't miss anything in the notes, Mr. Headley."

Headley stopped and gave Nick an inquisitive look prompting the Texan to continue. "See, Grissom, that was our supervisor at the time, devised a theory about a mysterious sample of DNA found at the scene and at the site where we found Cummings. But it was just Grissom's theory. Nothing was proven so it wasn't in our notes."

Headley scrawled some notes down quickly. "Very interesting, Mr. Stokes. I would like to pursue that further," Headley put his notebook aside, "however, first I have to ask for your consent to be audio taped during this meeting."

The researcher returned to a different file folder and took out two sheets of paper. "As stated before this is a preliminary stage of research. Think of it as a 'fact finding' mission," Headley said, using air quotes for emphasis. "It is possible that the documentarian might inquire about the possibility of an on-camera interview, something that could be done at your discretion. However, please note, your cooperation here does not bind you to any future obligations to this documentary."

Headley stood up to put a pen and paper in front of Sara and Nick. "Ms. Sidle. Mr. Stokes. I'm presenting you each with a consent form stating that you agree to an audio recording, that you are free to answer any and all questions, and that your responses will be truthfully stated to the best of your ability, which, if I may add, I do not believe will be a problem for either one of you."

Nick and Sara dutifully signed their names, which brought a pleasant smile to Headley's face. "Wonderful. I thank you both," Headley said as he picked up the forms. "Are there any questions before I 'mike you up?'"

Again, air quotes were used for emphasis, which made Sara smile.

"Well, before I get 'miked up,'" Nick said, using his own air quotes, "I should use the men's room."

"Fourth door on the left, Mr, Stokes. If it is occupied, Vanessa at the reception will direct you to another," Headley said, opening the door for Nick. "Ms. Sidle, would you need to use the facilities?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Checking out the microphone on the table, Sara asked, "Do we still need an individual microphone with that one on the table?"

Headley smiled and blushed. "Once again you caught me in an act of frivolity, Ms. Sidle. I just enjoy using the phrase, 'mike you up.'" Again, he gleefully used air quotes. But he reverted to his non-nonsense demeanor quickly. "However, we should test the integrity of the microphone with our engineer, who is in the other room." Headley pushed a button on the microphone and offered the standard "1, 2, 3 testing."

"Would you mind doing the same, Ms. Sidle."

Sara obliged and, almost immediately, a voice came from the receiver. "Hold on, Headley. Let me come in for a sec."

"That was Mitchell Robertson," Headley explained. "He is part of Mr. Chapman's documentary team. He is recording the sound today."

"You mean, Colton Chapman is working directly with the project?" Sara asked.

"Oh, not at this stage, no," Headley said. "And that is not at all unusual. As I said this is the preliminary stage of the research. Mr. Chapman has people, some freelancers, at different sites gathering research on different cases. From that, Mr. Chapman vets all the research, fine tunes the focus and goes ahead with more interviews, filming, etc."

"Are you involved after the preliminary stage?"

"Most likely not," Headley said. "I am but a cog in the machine, Ms. Sidle."

After a quick rap at the door, Mitchell Robertson breezed into the room without a hello. Sporting a worn hoodie and jeans, his casual nature and abrupt approach served as a yin to Headley's yangish polite, professional demeanor. "You two need to change spots," Robertson said. "I need her right in front of the mike."

As Headley and Sara switched seats, Robertson approached Sara. "I need you to really to project your voice. You have a deep, but low voice, which is awesome, but the mike is having a hard time hearing you."

Sara pushed her chair close to the table, and looked at Robertson for approval. "Cool," he said. "Remember, really close to the mike and audiate. Headley, have her test the mike again when the other dude comes back. And he needs to test it, too." With a slam of the door, Robertson was gone.

Sara and Headley only had to wait a minute before Nick arrived. "Sorry about that. First place was occupied."

"No need to apologize, Mr. Stokes," Headley said. "If you don't mind, we are going to check the sound again and then we will proceed."

Both Nick and Sara tested the mike, and both received a "good to go" remark from the voice on the receiver.

"Let's get started, shall we?"

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

_A/N: There will be more soon. Comments and reviews are quite appreciated._


	11. Chapter 10

A/N: It's a long chapter. I hope it is interesting. It was a bear to write.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 10**

"This is Connor Headley, a representative of the Evaluation and Management Research and Psychological Services. I am with Ms. Sara Sidle and Mr. Nick Stokes, both of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. The following interview is to be used for research only requested by Mr. Colton Chapman, of Hardline Productions."

"Could I get both parties at the table to please identify themselves?"

Nick looked at Sara, who spoke first. "This is Sara Sidle."

"Nick Stokes here."

"Thank you to you both," Headley said politely. "Now, as an FYI, I wanted to add that my questions are directly to both of you, unless specifically indicated, and please remember that this is an audio interview, so all responses should be voiced, as opposed to nodded or shaking of the head or giving a thumbs up."

"I understand that,' Sara said.

"Me, too," Nick agreed.

"Wonderful. Now that we've covered standard protocol, I would like to begin the discussion with the victim, Harold Cummings," Headley said. "Could you tell me a little bit about his appearance and an impression of his mental state when you first saw him?"

"Sara and I were called to a scene to investigate a fire/possible arson of an abandoned dwelling near Ivy Ridge," Nick said. "We were conducting a perimeter search and in the area, and the west end of it had an inclined slope. Sara and I thought if someone was escaping the fire, they might have I climbed up the slope seeking higher ground."

"When we got to the top, Nick sighted something on the ground some 100 yards away. We both approached it, unsure what it might be, but as we got closer, we could tell it was a body. He was alive and making noise," Sara said.

"His physical appearance was rough — covered in blood and stab wounds and deep cuts suggested a vicious attack with a knife," Nick continued. "I think we both were wondering how he was alive and whether he would bleed out."

"I agree," Sara said.

"But as far as his mental state," Nick shook his head, "It was … I don't know... it was probably as bad or even worse than his physical condition."

"He was laughing and mumbling, we could pick up bits and pieces of what he was saying. But at times he was incoherent," Sara said. "Nick and I had called for EMS and tried to stem the bleeding from his wounds."

As Headley took some notes, he unconsciously would scratch his forearm. "Would Mr. Cummings look at you, recognize your existence, talk to you personally? I understand you found him while it was dark, but could you see anything?"

"We only had our handheld lights when we located Mr. Cummings. Once we did find him and alerted EMS, we set up portable lights to create a lit perimeter," Sara said.

"When we first approached him, he stared at the sky, sometimes closing his eyes tight and just offer a continuous string of just nonsense phrases and ramblings..." Nick continued.

"Nonsense to us," Sara added.

"Yeah. That's true, Sar. What he was saying didn't make a whole lot of sense to us, but it seemed pretty significant to Cummings."

"Could you make out anything specific or in particular as to what Mr. Cummings was saying?" Headley asked.

"He talked about, 'That room,' a lot," Nick said.

"'Not in that room. Not in that room,.' He muttered that over and over," Sara said. "I remember him talking about ghosts. A ghost with a knife. He would talk about throwing the knife..."

"And punishment," Nick added, garnering a nod of agreement from Sara. "The ghost punishes him. Then he would talk so frantically, his stuff became incomprehensible."

"Sometimes he would talk through tears and other times through a weak fit of laughing," Sara said, her voice trailing. "I don't want to say it was a maniacal laugh. Just something indicative of a man... a man sent to the edge."

Headley noticed how Sara looked into the distance as she spoke her words. "May I ask what was going through your minds as you witnessed Mr. Cummings' state of mind?"

"What the hell happened to him?" Nick said. "I think we were both thinking that."

"Where had he been? Who did that to him?" Sara added. "And whether he would ever be able to provide us details to what did happen to him."

"Standard questions, despite the unusual nature of the situation," Headley said. "Having read your reports, I thought that Cummings could only offer scant recollections of the crime against him. Could you ascertain any appropriate information from Mr. Cummings about the nature of his victimization?"

"We visited Mr. Cummings during his hospitalization. He was initially blindsided and carjacked but Cummings said he had no idea who did attacked him and offered no descriptions whatsoever," Nick said. "He spoke about the room and a ghost who spoke to him, taunted him, but nothing definitive about it."

"When we learned about the sensory deprivation — being sealed in that room in the dark, we knew no matter how hard Cummings tried, he might never offer us information about his capture or where he was," Sara said. "It frustrated him. After a while of talking with us, all he would say was 'I'm not in the room but I'm still in the dark.'"

There was an uncomfortable pause and silence among the trio as Headley wrote notes, and Nick and Sara were left thinking about the tough case.

"During your initial investigations," Headley asked, "was there any time when you believed that Mr. Cummings escaped from his capture?"

Both Nick and Sara shook their heads in the negative before voicing their response. "No," Sara's voice was low but strong. "Cummings was left in the desert to die."

"Definitely," Nick agreed.

"And the fact that he was found? Was it serendipity?"

Sara quickly felt herself channeling vintage 2006 Supervisor Gil Grissom. "That's really something we don't analyze, Mr. Headley. Our jobs are to analyze the who and what."

"Oh, I do understand that, Ms. Sidle," Headley replied. "I ask that question along a course of hypothesizing. If I may explain, I've completed some research on media coverage surrounding Mr. Cummings at the time of his disappearance. It would seem that as investigators and police checked leads possibly linked to the kidnapping, they uncovered many 'skeletons' in Mr. Cummings' closet, if you will."

"Yes, the press got a hold of juicy details in Cummings' life," Sara said. "But are you asking us whether that had anything to do with him being left in the desert?"

"Yes, I am," Headley said. "Mostly out of curiosity. A point of discussion, if you will. It was something I had discussed with Mr. Cummings in an interview with him. He seems to believe he was meant to be found and humiliated by the media frenzy that followed suit."

Nick shifted in his seat. "I don't know if I totally agree with that, Mr. Headley. Cummings was sliced up pretty bad. If Sara and I hadn't found him when we did, he probably would have bled out in a matter of an hour."

"I'd have to agree with Nick."

"And I think the EMTs who came on the scene would have, too," Nick said. "I guess you could say it was serendipitous we found Cummings in the middle of nowhere. We were investigating a fire at an abandoned dwelling not far from where Cummings was. While searching for evidence in the area, we found Cummings."

Headley put his pen down for a moment and pondered before speaking. "If Mr. Landry had meant for Mr. Cummings to die in the desert, why would he have dumped his victim so close to a dwelling?"

Sara nodded her head. They had thought the same thing six years ago. "The house was down the canyon. Tire tracks which matched Landry's car proved that Landry would have arrived from the opposite direction, so it was quite possible he never would have seen the cabin, especially at night. If he was to check a wide perimeter of the area, and had seen it, its possible he would have disregarded it as an abandoned cabin," Sara said. "We obtained evidence that led us to Landry in the area where we found Cummings. Honestly, that was all we needed to concentrate on."

"What about the fire?" Mr. Headley asked. "Was that fire ever investigated further?"

"Yes, it was started from the inside. It didn't seem deliberate," Sara said. "Those were cold nights, and it seemed that one or more individuals used that shelter to squat. There was a makeshift fire pit inside and unattended embers caught fire to the whole structure."

"Fire and rescue got the call from a ranger who was patrolling the area. He knew of squatters, so we were called to investigate," Nick said.

"And in case you are wondering, we never found evidence of Landry or Cummings in that abandoned house," Sara added. "We don't think that Landry started the fire to help us find Cummings. Landry was completely clueless about the fire and the dwelling when it was discussed. It also upset him to find out about it."

"Thank you for that clarification, Ms. Sidle," Headley said. "In short, would you be willing to say that perhaps Mr. Landry seemed careless in his disposal of Mr. Cummings, which seemed to be an intentional act?"

"That is a mouthful, Mr. Headley." Nick's comment garnered chuckles from all three professionals. "But I think it is safe to say that we believe Landry did not cross all his t's or dot all his i's before he dumped Cummings body in the middle of nowhere. He made some mistakes, and we caught him because of them."

"It is an interesting perspective, considering it goes in the opposite direction as to the explanation given to me by Mr. Landry in an interview."

"I'm sure Landry said he planned everything to a tee, and he led us to him by leaving breadcrumbs of evidence," Sara said.

Headley took notes out of a file, and smiled. "That's actually exactly what he said, Ms. Sidle. Had you heard that explanation before from Mr. Landry?"

Sara crossed her arms in front of her chest and sat straight in her chair. "During an interrogation interview. Nick was outside the room, and I was in the room with Mr. Landry and my... Supervisor Grissom. After realizing he could no longer sidestep the evidence stacked against him, Landry confessed to the crimes."

Nick leaned back in his chair, recollecting the interview as well. "He said he meant to leave evidence of himself, because his... what was the phrase he used, Sara?"

"War of worthiness against society's failed moral compasses..."

"Exactly. Talk about a mouthful," Nick said with a chuckle. "Anyway, he insisted his 'work' was complete, so he 'allowed us' to do our job and bring his … ah... damn... his..."

Before Sara could answer, Headley spoke up. "Dogma of retribution?"

"Yes, bring that to light," Nick said. "You know, the level of arrogance of some suspects just floors you at times. If you're going to intentionally leave evidence of yourself at a crime scene, you might leave a wallet or a note or some type of calling card. But what we found to connect Landry to Cummings was a contact lens in the middle of the desert. Intentional my ass."

"He said nothing monumental comes from anything easy," Sara said, with her own smile. "His narcissism was definitely memorable. But no matter what Marshall Landry might believe or say, it truly came down to the fact that we worked hard on that scene and discovered evidence that was hard to find. And that ate him up."

"That and when when Grissom tried to question him about another possible victim," Nick added.

That comment garnered special attention from Headley. "I'm glad you brought that up, Mr. Stokes. I'm quite interested in this new wrinkle in the case file. You had said it was your supervisor who developed the theory of another survivor?"

"Gil Grissom," Sara said. "He has since retired from CSI." Sara couldn't help a small smile to form on her face, but it was not there for long. _Retired, but still not at home with me_, she thought.

"How did Mr. Grissom come to believe there was another survivor?"

"Mr. Headley, have you studied the crime scene photos of the room where the victims were kept?"

"I have, Ms. Sidle."

"OK, then you are familiar with the markings on the floor that Landry drew once a victim had died."

Headley scratched at his forearm and shook his head. "I do, Ms. Sidle. The proverbial, old-school chalk outlines Mr. Landry drew. The history of such outlines were done not for investigative purposes but for the benefit of the press that might come to a crime scene and take photos. That seemed to be Landry's intent, as well, to serve as a visual reminder for posterity."

Nick talked to Headley about the scene, but Sara became lost in the mental image burned in her brain some six years ago. When investigators came upon the room that served as Harold Cummings' temporary hell, as well as four other people, they saw four chalk outlines drawn in yellow paint upon the gunmetal gray floor. Some parts of the outlines overlapped parts of other outlines. Investigators surmised that Landry drew the outlines after his victim died, immortalizing an image of a dead body upon the floor.

_Sara recalled taking photos of those outlines, along with trying to find samples of any blood that might have been left behind. While she was alone in the room, Grissom entered and watched her work. But at one point, Grissom focused his attention in one spot in the corner of the six foot by nine foot cell. At first he shuffled his foot on the spot, then he went down on his knees to get a closer look._

_"That's going to hurt later," Sara said, teasing him while they had a moment alone. "I thought you were going to stop abusing your knees so much... or at least stop doing that at work."_

_Grissom shot her a devilish look letting her know he might not have responded to the comment now, but he reserved the right to comment later. "I think Landry started an outline here, but abruptly stopped."_

_Sara approached him curiously. "What do you mean?"_

_"Look here at this patch of gray. It's a newer patch of paint than the rest of the floor." Grissom a blade from his kit to precisely cut a thin slice of the new paint, revealing a small patch of yellow paint. He then picked up the slice with tweezers, and viewed each side. "This side is gray, but the other has remnants of yellow." _

_"Maybe the body shifted and he started a new outline?"_

_Grissom pursed his lips in thought. "But this patch is nowhere near the other outlines. And dead bodies don't move."_

_"Well, we're assuming he only drew the lines around dead bodies."_

_"True," Grissom said. "But what if he thought someone was dead, but that victim wasn't?" _

_Grissom got up off his knees and moved nearby to the corner where two walls met. Right in the crevice he saw a spot of blood. "Sara, could you get a sample of this please?"_

Nick's voice broke Sara out of her recollection. "We never were able to identify whose DNA connected to that blood sample Grissom found. Landry had that room specially made, and had contractors out there to make it months before he started kidnapping victims. It was possible the blood sample belonged to a contractor."

"Grissom didn't buy that explanation," Sara said. "But Grissom still believed there was something to it. The timeline was compromised between the time the coroner determined the death of one victim and the passage of time between the next victim being kidnapped."

Seeing Headley writing notes, Sara waiting for him to silently acknowledge he was following her train of thought. He gave her a nod, so she continued. "After we found the bodies of the other four victims, we discovered that the families of the victims listed them as missing almost immediately after the standard 24-hour waiting period. From that point we determined when Landry kidnapped them and used the coroner's determination as to time of death. With the first three victims there was a three-day lag between time of death of the one victim and the disappearance of the next victim. That timeline also existed between the death victim four and the kidnapping of Mr. Cummings," Sara continued. "However, Grissom noticed that a nine-day lag existed between the death of victim three and the kidnapping of victim four. He believed that lag existed because there was another victim who possibly survived."

Deep in thought, Headley looked at his notes, scratched his forearm and then looked at the crime scene photos. "If there was another victim, is it possible the body was never recovered? Mr. Landry had left Mr. Cummings in the desert. Could he have not done the same with another victim?"

"Yeah, he could of," Nick said. "But he was so willing to offer details on the other victims. So willing to take full responsibility for their torture and death. Why wouldn't he for another victim? And let me tell you, Landry was flustered when Grissom brought up his mysterious survivor theory. I thought he was going to jump the table and grab him at one point."

"Landry was pissed," Sara said. "He said no living man or woman could survive his wrath once he got a hold of that man or woman. A person's life or death was in his hands and his hands only."

"So, your supervisor believed if there was another victim whom Mr. Landry killed, Mr. Landry would have assumed the responsibility. However, if someone survived or escaped, it would have been an insult to Mr. Landry's work?" Headley asked.

"Yes, that's what Grissom believed," Nick said. "But again, it was just a theory he explored. Nothing came from it."

"Yet it sounds like Mr. Grissom was convinced on the matter," Headley said. "And all Mr. Grissom based his theory upon was a paint chip and a blood sample?"

"Yes. And a sock," Sara said with a completely straight face.

Nick had to laugh at the look on Headley's face — a dumbstruck look of confusion. "Trust me, it's as odd as it sounds," Nick said. "The sock she's talking about was found down the canyon below where we found Cummings. His body was situated on that flat landing I was talking about before... about 100 yards from a steep decline..."

"Yes, I understand that Mr. Stokes."

"Well, Grissom went down to the edge of the decline and I guess he saw something down there," Nick continued. "I don't know what got into him. I mean, Grissom is a big guy, a little older, he almost always had me or Wa... or another co-worker doing, you know, physical, grunt work, but he just started moving down the incline."

Sara rubbed her forehead. She recalled that memory, too.

_She heard Grissom moving down that slope and ran to the edge, thinking he had fallen. When she got there, she saw Grissom stopped halfway down the slope with his jacket askew, his shirttail untucked and his pants a mess. He was dusting himself off and retrieving the camera he had secured over his neck and shoulder. _

_"Grissom! What the hell are you doing?" Sara yelled._

_She heard the camera's motor as Grissom shot four photos. "Did Harold Cummings have a pair of socks on?"_

_Sara looked at him in stunned disbelief. She had to think for a second. "Umm... he had socks and shoes on when we found him."_

_"Interesting," Grissom said, as he took a pair of forceps from his pocket and with his gloved hand, pick up a sock from a branch. "See this? I think it has yellow paint transfer."_

"So Mr. Grissom believed that this mysterious survivor someone escaped or was taken to the same site where Mr. Landry took Mr. Cummings," Headley surmised.

"That's what Grissom thought," Nick said. "Of course, he and his supervisor did not agree on that assessment, so that avenue wasn't pursued again."

Headley seemed deep in thought again, scratching his forearm as he did. He shook his head, knowing he had zoned out in thought. "I apologize. This is something that just really jump starts all types of research avenues. How do you both feel about that theory?"

Nick sat up and sighed. "I mean, it's possible that Grissom was onto something, but we couldn't prove anything either way. We had to concentrate on what we had. That lag of time might have been because Landry had a bout of the flu. Who knows? We had to work with what we had to get Landry behind bars."

"I see," Headley said. "And you Ms. Sidle?"

"I'm on the fence about it," she said, honestly. "I understood how Grissom came to his conclusion, but at the same time witnessing the aftermath of Landry's work, knowing his mentality, and seeing that room, knowing people were deprived of light, I have a hard time thinking anyone could escape that."

"Is it possible to talk with Mr. Grissom?" Headley asked them both. "You had said he retired, but would either of you know a way to contact him?"

Nick smiled and looked at Sara, who shrugged and smiled back. "Sara probably is the best person to ask about that."

Headley offered Sara an inquisitive look.

"Grissom is my husband. We got married a few years ago."

The reply surprised Headley. "Oh, felicitations to you, Ms. Sidle. Oh... I apologize... I've been referring to you as that... should I have called you?..."

"Oh, don't apologize. I still go by Sidle. Occupational habit, I suppose."

"Indeed," Mr. Headley said. "Well, I offer felicitations again to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Headley."

"Do you suppose I could contact your husband using your contact information?"

Sara thought for a moment. "Home contact number is fine. He is out of town right now, so you couldn't talk to him this week..."

Headley cut her off politely. "Oh, it wouldn't be right away. I might just leave a message for him and allow him to contact me at his convenience. But if you would offer him a good word on my behalf, I would be most appreciative."

"Sure," Sara said with a friendly smile.

"Well, I must say, this has been informative," Headley said. "I would like to thank you both for your contributions. Is there anything either one of you would like to add about the case that we had not talked about?"

Nick and Sara looked at one another and seemed to think the interview has run its course. "I can't think of anything else," Nick said.

"Ms. Sidle?" Headley asked.

"No. I think we have covered a lot."

"If I have any questions or if Mr. Chapman has any further inquiries, would you mind if we contact you both again?"

Both CSIs responded in the positive, so Headley completed the interview. "Very good. This concludes our interview with Ms. Sara Sidle and Mr. Nick Stokes."

Headley pushed the microphone button off and stood up. "Thank you again. Shall I walk you out?"

Nick and Sara stood up and Headley opened the door for them both. He escorted them down the hall to the reception area. He opened the door allowing them to exit, but stayed by the door. "I wish you both safe travels back to Las Vegas."

Nick was going to shake hands, but seeing that Headley never offered his hand now or when they first me, he didn't initiate the gesture. "Good to meet you, Mr. Headley."

"Good luck with your research," Sara added.

"Thank you," Headley said sincerely and cordially. And with that, he closed the door to the reception.

Nick opened the door that led them to the parking lot and exited after his co-worker. The two of them walked to Nick's truck, putting on their respective pair of shades.

"So," Nick asked. "What did you think?"

"I think Grissom's going to kill us for mentioning his name."

"Not my problem," Nick said as he unlocked the truck and opened his door. "I'm not the one married to him."

Seated in the passenger seat, Sara gave him a mock stern look as Nick laughed, turned the ignition key and drove off.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Reviews and comments are quite appreciated.


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 11**

After escorting Nick and Sara out of the research firm, Connor Headley walked back to the conference room. Deep in thought, he hypothesized different avenues and directions to take his research forward and itched to write down all his ideas.

He opened the door to the conference room to find Mitch Robertson tearing down the audio equipment. "Well, that was quick of you, Mr. Robertson," Headley said, a little surprised, "I would have been more than happy to help you dismantle the equipment."

Robertson didn't even look at Headley and continued with his tasks. "You know I like to do this myself."

"I'm more than capable of helping," Headley said. "I do know the importance of maintaining and caring for sensitive equipment."

Robertson shut his case and looked at the researcher. "Don't take offense, Headley. Just something I should do myself."

Headley nodded his head. "Understood." He sat down to his notepad and started jotting down ideas.

"So, you seemed pleased with the interview," Robertson said, as he wrapped a cord around his arm.

Headley continued to focus on his papers, but replied to Robertson's comment. "I do. Yes. I think it went quite well. We garnered interesting insight on the case."

"Yeah, well, I noticed you didn't even broach the subject about those two investigators' own backgrounds," Robertson said. "I thought interviewing them about their prior experiences was going to be something you were going to pursue. We talked about that."

Headley kept his eyes down. "I never said I 'would' bring up either Mr. Stokes' or Ms. Sidle's brushes with kidnappers," Headley said. "I said that if that information would offer informative research that I might pursue it."

Robertson put away the properly wrapped cable and then plopped into a chair next to Headley, who never stopped writing or seemed phased by Robertson's brusque movements. "Tell, me Mr. Headley, top research guy," he said in a sarcastic, but friendly tone, "how exactly can two people who survived being kidnapped and left for dead by murderers, one definitely a serial killer, not be able to offer information and insight for a documentary about people who survived serial killer attacks?"

Headley put his pen down, placed both hands on the table and faced Robertson. "Talking with police officers and investigators is a delicate task. It has been my experience that if they are cooperative and feel comfortable, and are not pressured or feel they are being swayed in a particular direction, they are more apt to open up about a case," Headley said. "I believe I achieved that level of comfortability with Mr. Stokes and Ms. Sidle, and as such, they offered valuable insight for Mr. Chapman and the pursuit of his documentary."

"Yeah, but having them talk about their own experiences, would have been more valuable."

"Or they would have shut down altogether. Law enforcement officers are not over-sharers, if you will," Headley said. "They were here on the pretense of speaking about Marshall Landry and Harold Cummings. You heard Mr. Stokes' reaction when I mentioned the documentary; he went on the defensive. That was a clear indication that I should not stray from the topic at hand."

"Your job is to get the best information possible for the documentary."

"Did you know about the theory of the mysterious survivor?" Robertson merely raised his eyebrows at Headley's comment, which was voiced a little more forcibly than the mild-mannered man usual tone. "The idea that an investigator, and from the sounds of it a seasoned one, believed someone might have left Mr. Landry's clutches and Mr. Landry violently reacting to such a hypothesis are insightful nuggets of information for the documentary."

"So you going to talk to Landry about it?"

"I have to," Headley said. "For the sake of the research I need to talk to Mr. Landry and this Mr. Grissom."

Robertson nodded his head in agreement. "I wonder why he never digged more into his theory... That Grissom guy, I mean."

"Well, that is certainly a question I hope to pose to him, especially in light that most of his colleagues, even his future wife, did not fully support his conclusion," Headley said. "I will try to get a hold of him to hold an appointment here, would you be available for that?"

Robertson got up to gather his equipment. "Just let me know when."

"And, with Landry?" Headley added. "Should I contact Mr. Beck again about providing the audio and video at the correctional center? Or would you like to go with me on that assignment?"

Robertson thought for a second and answered. "Go with Beck. He's already got the preliminary clearance for the place, and you two work well together."

"He does his job well."

"Then why mess with a good thing," Robertson said, making his way out the door. "Just let me know when to pick up the tapes. They need to be brought back here."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Robertson," Headley complied. "And I will be able to secure an audio copy of today's interview for my comprehensive report?"

"Yeah. I'll get it to you. See ya, Headley," Robertson said, exiting the room.

Headley simply nodded and returned to taking notes. He retrieved a briefcase from under the table and removed a laptop. After turning it on, he opened up a browser window that defaulted to Google. In the search window, he put five words: "Gil Grissom CSI Las Vegas."

* * *

_"You know that was one of the dumbest things I think I've ever witnessed you doing."_

_Grissom winced. The alcohol Sara was putting on his side and back stung as it entered the cuts and scratches littering his lower body. "I'm sure I've done dumber things, dear."_

_"Dumber than falling down a steep incline?"_

_Grissom turned his torso as he laid on his bed. He saw Sara with a trademark "I told you so" face. "I like to refer to what I did as a controlled descent."_

_"Controlled," Sara repeated, as she grabbed some more cotton swabs and a pair of tweezers. _

_"Yes. Controlled. That might have gotten out of control. OH!" Grissom yelped as Sara used the tweezers. "Are you digging for gold?"_

_"No," Sara said with a laugh. "I'm digging for splinters, cactus spines and thorns, which you received on your controlled descent."_

_Grissom turned all the way around on the bed, as Sara sat at his side leaning over him. "Let's stop the torture for a moment," he said, taking the tweezers out of her hands. "Did you really find it that foolish for me to retrieve evidence?"_

_Sara sat up straight. "It's never foolish to gather potential evidence, you know that Griss. I just think you got too excited about something that might not pan out to be anything."_

_Grissom sat up as well. "I don't think Cummings was the only survivor of this kidnapper and murderer."_

_"Because of a sock? And paint on the floor?" Sara asked. "Gil, I think you're getting ahead of yourself, hon."_

_"It is a hunch, I admit that, Sara," Grissom said. "But I'm not going to abandon the theory just yet. I'll let the evidence speak for itself."_

_"Well, I know you always do."_

_"Thank you."_

_They shared smiles with one another. "Turn back around," Sara said._

_"No." _

_"Why?"_

_"Because you will hurt me again," Grissom said. "The evidence is the tweezers in your hand."_

_Sara put the tweezers down. "I just want to put some antibiotic cream on some of the deeper cuts and then I'll rub your back."_

_Grissom pursed his lips and thought it over. "OK. I trust you."_

_He turned on his stomach and felt her apply cream in a few places. Then she placed her left palm firmly upon his shoulder. He was ready to let a moan of pleasure escape his mouth, when... _

_"OWWH!"_

_She used the tweezers again. "Sorry, babe, but there are a couple more thorns," Sara said, as she leaned down over Grissom. "They are taunting me. I got to get them."_

_"How are thorns taunting... OWWH!"_

_"Oops. I dug a little too deep there," Sara said apologetically. "I better apply some alcohol."_

_A moan did escape Grissom's mouth, just not one of pleasure._

* * *

"Are you asleep again?"

Nick's question broke Sara out of her daydream. "No. I'm awake. Sorry."

"You thinking about the case?"

"Yeah," Sara said.

"Me too," Nick admitted. "Let's talk about something that takes our mind off of it."

"Good idea."

"So..." Nick started. "Hey, have you thought about getting another dog?"

The notion caught Sara off guard. "Huh. You know, with everything's that's been going on, I haven't even thought of that."

"Really? I remember when I was a kid and lost my dog, it felt so weird not to have him in the house. I got another pet like a week later," Nick said.

"I don't know," Sara reflected. "I loved Hank, and there is a void. But … it's not like I feel I absolutely need another dog in the house."

"Well, Grissom did have Hank with him longer than you, right?"

"Yeah. That's true."

"So maybe it's different for you," Nick said. "What about Grissom? You think he wants another dog?"

"Nick, Hank passed away just a few days ago," Sara said. "Grissom and I haven't had much time to talk since then."

"Well, sure, but Hank was sick for a while," Nick said. "Didn't you guys ever talk about it then? I've had buddies who wouldn't think about getting another dog after one they had for a while died. Like they feel like they were replacing them. Did you think Grissom would be like that?"

Sara paused. So much so that that Nick thought she zoned out. "Sar? You hear me?"

"I don't know," Sara said honestly. "I have no idea if he wants another dog. I don't remember ever talking about it."

Nick chuckled. "Man, you must be tired. You sound so sad when you said that."

Sara offered a small smile, but inside she felt empty. _Why hadn't we ever talked about that? Not that he might talk about it. But shouldn't I have ever asked? And why don't I have an idea of what my husband would want?_

"Sar?"

"Yeah, I am tired," Sara said, trying to change the subject. "I didn't sleep when I got home."

"Yeah, I know," Nick said. "You had 'Operation Tornado Packing' happening at your house and you fell asleep on the way over."

"It's not a tornado over there."

"Whatever you say, Ms. Sidle," Nick joked. "I bet when Grissom packs his bag for this upcoming jungle trip, the house won't look anything like it does now."

Sara smile faded. "He's not going."

"Oh," Nick said, immediately feeling the tension in Sara's voice. Obviously bringing up anything Grissom-related was not a good idea. "Well, you're still going. What are you going to be doing?"

Sara related some of the activities she would be doing while studying the protocol by the Hawthorne Association. Nick noticed she was more animated on this subject than the previous two subjects he brought up. He listened to his colleague but still wondered if something might be wrong with her relationship with Grissom.

* * *

tbc

* * *

_A/N: I promise another chapter in just a few days. This one would get too long if I continued. Reviews and comments are most appreciated. _


	13. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry for the delay. I had problems with this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 12**

Grissom took a deep breath before he entered the small bar/cafe on Rue du Nil. Although he had promised to meet Sylvie Martin for a drink after his evening class to better secure a deal concerning his textbook, he did not look forward to sharing her company. He wanted to just turn around and go to the apartment, but he knew he had to play nice. His future - his and his wife's future and happiness - might depend on it.

But, he was already late. He offered to give extra time to a few students who wished to elevate their grades to a more passable level. For the past hour and a half he gave them question after question, challenging them to answer three correctly to increase their grade by 10 points. They finally achieved that goal after a total of 90 questions (14 of which were repeats of earlier questions).

Normally, that might have been akin to being tortured, but Grissom welcomed the monotonous task because he was stalling.

But now it was time to face the music, both figuratively and literally. As smooth jazz from a local French radio station filtered outside the cafe and into the street, Grissom grabbed the front door handle and stepped inside. He took in the cozy surroundings ubiquitous of so many French establishments. To the left was a well-stocked bar with low lighting and comfortable stools. A few tables dotted the landscape, and at the back wall were more padded chairs, love seats and even a couch.

That's where Grissom spied Sylvie, sitting on one of the love seats, with her legs demurely crossed and her hand holding a glass of red wine. Grissom gave her a smile, and crossed the room to greet her.

"Professeur," Sylvie said, still seated but extending her arm out for Grissom to take, "you are late."

Grissom took her hand shook it. "I had students to tend to. Please accept my apology."

Sylvie nodded her head skeptically. "Hmmm... well, that is your avocation."

Grissom released her hand. "Well, at least you have had company."

To Grissom's relief, Laurent Therien, Sylvie's assistant, was sitting next to her on the couch. Knowing he wouldn't be alone with Sylvie immediately relaxed Grissom. "Good to see you, Laurent," he said as he extended his hand to the man in his 30s for a hearty handshake. "I hope you are staying to discuss the proposal?" _Please say, "Oui." Please say, "Oui."_ he thought.

"If you wish, monsieur, and if mademoiselle does not mind,"

"Why would I mind?" Sylvie purred, finishing her glass of wine. "Two attractive men awaiting to fetch me another drink?"

Laurent stood up and gestured to Grissom to take a seat. "Mademoiselle? Un verre de vin?"

Sylvie gave a sharp, wicked smile to her assistant as she handed her now empty glass. Laurent took it and turned to Grissom. "Monsieur? A glass of wine also?"

"I believe Gil drinks scotch, Laurent," Sylvie said.

"Wine is fine, Laurent," Grissom corrected. "Merci."

Laurent nodded and left for the bar. Grissom shifted on the couch, trying to secure a more comfortable position while leaving ample space between him and Sylvie. She, on the other hand, scooted over toward him. "Gil, you look like a teenage boy on a first date. You should not be so nervous. I will not... how is that American phrase? … Bite you?"

Grissom felt his face become red, which only made him squirm. "These couches aren't exactly as comfortable as they look."

"Not if you just relax," Sylvie said, putting a hand on his thigh.

"Have you been here long, Mademoiselle Martin?" Grissom asked. "If you have something else to attend to, we can do this another time."

"Waiting for you is no chore, professeur, especially when I am accompanied with several glasses of wine," Sylvie said. "I will forgive you this time. But you might have to make it up to me the next time."

As Sylvie tried to sidle up to Grissom, he saw Laurent approach with the drinks and stood up to greet the young man. Laurent gave Grissom his wine and Sylvie hers, and the moment offered Grissom the prime opportunity. "Perhaps the three of us could move to a table," Grissom said. "It will allow us to discuss matters better."

Laurent nodded in agreement. "A table is available right there," he said in a thick, French accent. "On la prendus?" he asked, pointing to the table.

Grissom headed to the table, and Laurent looked at his boss, shrugging his shoulders in question. She unfolded her legs and shooed Laurent forward with a wag of two fingers. She took another sip of wine, gathered something off the couch and joined the gentlemen at the table. Grissom seemed more at ease, even as Sylvie took a seat across from him.

"Did either of you have any concrete suggestions for changes to the proposal?" Grissom asked.

"Patience, professeur," Sylvie said with a smile. "Let us not forget one the reasons for our meeting. A toast. To your puppy."

Grissom gave a weak smile, as Laurent questioned the comment. "His... puppy?"

"Mon chien... my dog," Grissom explained. "He died a few days ago."

"Oh," Laurent said. "Je suis désolé. Mariano and I have a bouledogue."

"A French bulldog?"

"Oui. Jacque Pierre," Laurent said smiling. "Oh... I don't what we would do without him."

Grissom could relate to that.

"His name?" Laurent asked.

"Hank."

"Then we must toast Hank," Sylvie said, as she sat up straight and practically thrust her chest forward. She lifted her glass, and the men followed suit. "Tchin. Cheers."

The trio clinked their glasses with one another and took a sip.

"Merci," Grissom said sincerely. "I don't want to take much of your time, and I didn't know if you specific advice for me to pursue concerning the textbook proposal."

Sylvie leaned toward Grissom, offering an eye-full of cleavage. "Gil, there is really nothing academically that we could offer in the way of how the proposal is written. It is well-written and intelligent."

"That's kind to say," Grissom said, "however, I am assuming there is a conditional statement that goes with that. Something that would hold the project back."

"Gil, you must understand. Entomology is just not... sexy," Sylvie said, as she seductively took another sip of wine to drive her point home.

Neither man seemed impressed by the action, but as she finished her fourth glass of wine, Sylvie didn't seem to care and continued. "Gil, if you truly want this proposal to be taken seriously, you have to impress upon the board the exciting nature of this project. How will this project truly bring in funds and students to Sorbonne."

"All that is outlined in the project," Grissom said.

"Yes," Sylvie quickly countered, "but what is not outlined is your commitment to teach the text at the Sorbonne. You should sign a contract in good faith."

Grissom sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Mademoiselle Martin, I am not going down this road again. A consideration of a contract comes after the acceptance of the proposal, not before."

"Again, Gil, it is an act of good faith."

"An act I have already performed for two years as this proposal has been put aside time and time again," Grissom replied. "I believe the Sorbonne should consider this as _its_ act of good faith."

Sylvie sat up straight in her chair and placed her palms upon the table. "Gil, I am not the enemy here, I am..."

"On my side," Grissom finished. "And I appreciate that. I do. However, we are at the endgame. It is time to make final moves."

Sylvie took another sip of wine. 'You are letting your wine sit, Gil. Are you sure you would not prefer a scotch?"

"Ҫa va, merci."

Sylvie smiled and finished her wine. "I understand what you are saying, Gil, and it is one of the reasons I asked you to this cafe. It is a place frequented by Dr. Edouard Germaine."

The comment garnered Sylvie a cocked eyebrow expression, which seemed to please her. She looked toward the door and saw a man enter, which made her smile even wider. "As a matter of fact, he has just now arrived."

Grissom turned his head toward the door to see the head of the board of directors enter the establishment. He turned his attention back to Sylvie. "Perhaps I should call him over. "

But Sylvie grabbed Grissom's arm before he could wave the man over. "No. Gil. You do not want to seem too forward, that will only serve to annoy Edouard. You must trust me. How about if I go talk to him now? Offer him praises of your proposal and insist that he trust me in pursuing this project."

Grissom weighed his options, and knew Sylvie's offer couldn't hurt. "That would be most appreciated, mademoiselle."

"But of course, Gil," Sylvie said, reaching over to put her hand over Grissom's. "I am only here to help you."

She punctuated her sentence with another sensuous smile. Grissom removed his hand from under hers and took a sip of his wine. Once again, Sylvie seemed amused by his reaction. "Since I am need of another drink and Edouard is at the bar, perhaps I will talk to him now."

Sylvie stood up and pressed down her outfit before walking in her three-inch heels to the bar. Grissom took another sip of wine and slowly weaved his tired hand in his hair.

"It has been a long day, professeur?" Laurent said.

"A long semester."

Laurent nodded. "Professeur, it might not be my... place, but I believe mademoiselle is correct. It will not be easy to pass your proposal, despite its... brilliance," Laurent said honestly. "There is so much … politics involved in the acceptance process. And mademoiselle does know how to play politics."

Grissom sighed. "While I am used to politics, it is not my forte," Grissom admitted. "However, I wish a decision could be made so I could know whether to move on."

"That is understandable," Laurent said. "If I may add, the translation of the proposal is superb."

"That is all because of Amalia," Grissom said, with pride. "She's a gifted linguist."

"She truly is. That is why so many of us … how do you Americans say about … eh... envier?"

Grissom smiled. "You mean, 'green with envy?'"

"Oui. Oui. Very green," Laurent said mischievously. "Since mademoiselle is away, would you like the scotch now?"

Grissom smiled. He liked Laurent and thought it might pass the time while waiting for Sylvie. "You will join me?"

"Oui."

Grissom got the attention of a nearby waitress, gave her cash for the drinks and she returned shortly with two glasses of scotch on the rocks.

"À votre santé," Grissom said with a raised glass, offering a toast of good health.

"À la votre," Laurent replied, and the two clinked glasses and drank.

Grissom searched out Sylvie at the bar and found her talking to the head of the board of directors. He heard a familiar ring of a phone and was about to retrieve his cellular when he realized Sylvie was answering a call on her phone. He took another slow sip of his drink and enjoyed comfortable silence with Laurent.

Sylvie excused herself from her conversation with Edouard when she heard the ring tone emanate from her clutch. She took out the cellular and smiled when she saw the name on the display. "Oui?" she said innocently.

There was a pause on the other line, and then the caller said in an obvious, American accent, "Amalia? Is that you?"

Sylvie had a wicked smile on her face. "Are you looking for an Amalia?"

"No," said the woman on the other line. "I am looking for my husband."

"Oh, and who would that be?" Sylvie asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

"Gil Grissom."

"Oh, Professeur Grissom," Sylvie said, with a sugary sweet tone that also displayed the tipsiness she was feeling. "Who wouldn't be looking for the popular and handsome professeur?"

Sara knew this woman was obviously not Amalia from the moment she said "Oui." She checked the number she punched into the phone and saw she didn't misdial. And yet, here is this woman purring into her husband's phone. Her. Husband's. Phone. This woman did not amuse her. "Who is this?" Sara demanded.

"Oh Madam Grissom, you do not recall?" Sylvie questioned. "Sylvie Martin. I control the grants of the biology department at Sorbonne."

Sara rolled her eyes. She knew that name as the pain in her husband's ass and the woman Amalia once pointed out as a woman who would do anything to get what she wants. "Yes, Ms. Martin."

"Mademoiselle," Sylvie corrected.

"Oui," Sara said, biting her tongue. "Mademoiselle Martin. May I please speak with my husband?"

"Oh, Gil? Well, he is occupied at the moment, but we are together this evening. Consoling the poor man on the loss of his beloved Hank," Sylvie said. "Such a shame it is not you with him in this sad, vulnerable time. But I will most certainly tell him you called."

This woman was playing with Sara's emotions. "Excuse me, but he is occupied?" Sara questioned. "And you have his phone and answer his phone?"

"He dropped the phone. On the couch," Sylvie added. "It is not the first time. I didn't want him to miss a call, especially one as important as a call from his wife."

"If you could just give the phone to Gil..."

"Of course, madam. Once he is not occupied. It was so lovely speaking to you."

Before Sara could offer a retort, Sylvie hung up the phone. With a devilish grin on her face, she closed the phone and put it back into her clutch.

"Vous semblez trouver quelque chose de très amusant, mademoiselle." Even Edouard Germaine, who spoke little English, could tell something was amusing Sylvie.

"Un moment de sérendipité," Sylvie replied. A moment of serendipity indeed.

The two continued their conversation in French as Edouard asked, "So are you saying I should support the proposal or no?"

"There is no need to support anything if he does not stay," Sylvie said.

"But he has not said he would stay," Edouard said. "So, we turn down the proposal."

"Give me another few days, Edouard. To allow me to persuade him," Sylvie said. "I believe I am going to be quite close to him in a very short time."

Sylvie stood up and told Edouard she was going to say hello to a few more patrons before returning to Grissom's table. They kissed on the cheek and she weaved her way through the patrons, whose numbers had increased since she first arrived.

* * *

Both Laurent and Grissom seemed relaxed as they people-watched the increasing number of patrons entering the cafe. Several minutes had passed before Laurent began a conversation. "Professeur, how is your wife?"

"Sara is well, thank you."

"She is quite charming and beautiful," Laurent added.

"Had you met her before?"

"Oui. I remember meeting her at the fundraiser gala some time ago," Laurent said. "She looked stunning in her dress."

A feeling of longing surged within Grissom. He could picture his wife that evening._ It was a winter gala, and she was dressed in an ankle-length, dark blue dress with slits on each to reveal a portion of her long, strong, svelte legs caressed by silky nylons. She wore a shawl over her off-the-shoulder short sleeves, but Grissom recalled standing behind her, taking off the shawl and allowing his hands and lips to caress the bare skin there. The dress' beautiful v-neck design revealed just how beautiful his wife truly was. The image of her curves and her cleavage could take Grissom's breath away, but perhaps not as much as her familiar, flawless face and loving smile._

"Her parfum?"

_Yes, her perfume. She had her hair up, and the scent of her perfume still could permeate his senses._

"Monsieur?" Laurent said. "Professeur Grissom?"

Grissom blushed, lost in his own thoughts as Laurent tried to carry on a conversation. "I'm sorry Laurent. I was just thinking..."

"Do not explain, professeur," Laurent said with a smile. "You are far away from her and it is obvious you miss her."

"Did you ask me about her perfume?"

"Oui, monsieur. I know that sounds... odd," Laurent said. "As you can imagine my Mariano and I both enjoy more manly scents, but I do recall she was wearing a wonderful scent."

"It is something composed locally using essential oils," Grissom said.

"Ah... peppermint, ginger perhaps..."

"Yes, I believe so," Grissom said, marveled and mystified by Laurent's ability to classify something he smelled months ago. "You seem to know your scents."

Laurent laughed. "You are probably thinking it is crazy, but I am very close to my sister, and she loves parfum and essential oils and soaps and lotions. You spend enough time with her, and you also become educated on the subject."

"Whether you like it or not?"

Laurent laughed and batted Grissom's shoulder. "So, true, professeur. So true." Laurent raised his glass of wine to Grissom, who clinked it. "It suited your wife well."

"She doesn't get to wear it often," Grissom said. "She cannot wear it at work."

"I'm sorry?"

"She works in criminal investigation, and doesn't like to wear fragrances while she is working," Grissom explained. "But I believe she still has some at the apartment."

"Ah. I understand," Laurent said. "That would definitely not be a job suitable for my sister."

"Because she loves to wear parfum?"

Laurent smiled. "No, because she would judge people of their guilt and innocence based on what they are wearing, their astrological sign, how they did their hair..." Laurent joked, employing a high-pitched voice to mimic his sibling. "Oh, he must be guilty. Look at the couch in his living room. That pattern is a crime!"

Grissom laughed heartily. "That would be a problem."

The two were laughing so hard that they didn't notice Sylvie returned to the table until Grissom felt a pair of hands upon his shoulders, massaging them. "You two seem to be laughing about something humorous."

Grissom turned around, hoping Sylvie would take her hands off of him. She did not. "Please, sit down," Grissom said to her. "How did the discussion go?"

Sylvie continued to massage Grissom's shoulders, but finally stopped when she noticed a stern look on Laurent's face. She smiled and took the seat to the right of Grissom. "I had some interesting conversations."

"Specifically, what was said?" Grissom asked.

"Edouard is eager to look at the proposal. I should be talking with him in the next few days and I believe what I have to say will make a keen impact upon him," Sylvie said.

Grissom had no way to truly make out what Sylvie was saying. Her statement could be construed in so many different ways. And it was late. He had work in the morning and he hoped to speak to Sara before her shift. "Well, that does sound positive," Grissom said as he stood up. "I appreciate the time you gave me tonight, but I should be taking leave."

"Oh, Gil. What can I say to make you change your mind?" Sylvie said in a deep voice. "There must be something."

Grissom smiled. "Merci, mademoiselle. Laurent," Grissom put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and extending the other hand for a shake.

"Professeur, I enjoyed our drink and conversation," Laurent said as he stood to shake Grissom's hand.

Sylvie also stood, so she and Grissom could exchange the typical kiss-on-the-cheek goodbye. While she swept a strand of hair behind her ear hoping it might convince Grissom to stay, the action did nothing to Grissom. That move only seemed seductive when Sara did it. Otherwise it looked like a woman getting hair out of her face. "Au revoir, mademoiselle."

"I shall see you soon, Gil."

Grissom nodded, then made his way through the crowd to exit the front door.

Laurent and Sylvie sat back down and spoke to one another in French. "He was hoping for more definite answers," Laurent said.

"And I'm sure he will get one soon," Sylvie said, as she retrieved a cellular phone from her clutch. "He should be more cooperative to my considerations."

"He is married and in love, mademoiselle," Laurent said sternly.

"You are assuming one with the other, my dear," Sylvie retorted, as she pushed buttons on the phone. "We shall see."

* * *

tcb

A/N: I hope to post more very soon. Merci to the real life and most wonderful Sylvie for correcting my horrendous French. The posting should get better soon. Reviews and comments are most appreciated.


	14. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI or songs written by Eric Clapton.

* * *

**CHAPTER 13**

Grissom sat the back of the Parisian cab as it drove to his apartment. The City of Lights was aglow, it's nom de plum coming to life. He stared out the window at the beautiful vistas, and was reminded of Vegas, another nocturnal city.

Of course, Vegas could not compare to the history, culture and majesty of the European capital. Glitz and tourism cast an artificial glow on America's gambling Mecca. But, Las Vegas does possess something Paris could not hold at this time — his heart, which resides with Sara Sidle in Vegas.

Without his heart, Grissom found it harder and harder to concentrate on his work, on most everything. He recalled his conversation with Laurent and his mind went back to the evening two years ago when he and Sara attended the fundraising gala.

_Grissom opened the door to the apartment and allowed Sara to enter before he did. As he locked the door, he felt her hand pressed upon his shoulder. She was using him as a leaning post as she did what he had wanted to do for hours - take off her high heels._

"_Ughh," Sara said in relief. "It has been a long time since I've had to wear those things. Now I remember why I hate them so much."_

_Grissom smiled. "Has it been that long?"_

"_Actually it has," Sara said after pondering. "Probably since I had a court date when I was working in Vegas. You know, I didn't even wear heels for our wedding."_

_Grissom stood behind her and enveloped her with his arms. "Considering where we got married, I think forgoing the heels was a prudent idea."_

"_Technically we were in the jungle," Sara said._

"_Technically?" _

"_OK," Sara conceded, "we were in the jungle. The heels would have just sunk in the ground. But it's not like I was wearing combat boots..."_

"_No," Grissom said softly, as he placed feather-light kisses upon her exposed nape and shoulders. "You looked lovely then. And seeing you in those heels with that dress... You looked wonderful tonight."_

_Sara snickered and sank deeper into her husband's body. "Wonderful tonight? Are you going to sing to me like Clapton?"_

_Without hesitation, Grissom sang, "And I say, 'Yes, you look wonderful tonight.'"_

_The moan of pleasure from his wife, only spurred him to continue. "I feel wonderful, because I see the love light in your eyes... and the wonder of it all... is that you just don't realize how much I love you."_

_Sara turned in his arms to kiss Grissom full on the mouth. She broke the kiss and said, "You have an aching head."_

_Grissom offered a perplexed look. "I do?"_

"_Yes," Sara said seductively, "And according to the song, I need to get you into bed."_

_Grissom chuckled as he let Sara pull him into the bedroom._

The soft smile on Grissom's face began to fade as he thought about how much he missed his wife and how they seemed worlds apart these days. He had felt like this before, but he had hoped they had jumped that hurdle of understanding in the jungle.

_Despite taking the plunge to retire and seek Sara, Grissom couldn't sleep for a couple weeks after arriving at Sara's base camp. Between anxiety and humidity, Grissom felt uneasy about so many things. _

_One night while Sara was asleep and he was wide-awake, Grissom searched for his migraine medicine in the tent he and Sara shared. They kept their important documents and medication in a lockbox under their twin cots, which were pushed together. She awoke to find him looking at her passport._

_"What are you doing?" She asked._

_"I'm sorry..." Grissom replied as he kept a hold of the passport and looking at the different stamps on the pages. His voice didn't reflect bitterness or anger. If anything, it sounded empty and lost. "I didn't know you went to Canada last February. Must have been cold."_

_Sara sat up and gestured for Grissom to sit next to her on the cot. He had his own passport in his hand and gave it to Sara to look through. _

_"My last stamp, before the one here, was in 2000," Grissom said. "I went to Amsterdam for a lecture."_

_"So," Sara said playfully, "did you get stoned there?"_

_Beams of moonlight illuminated her grin, causing him to smile softly. _

_"Sara... Do you want me here... with you?"_

_"Of course."_

_"Because I don't want our lives to be this different," he said as he grasped the two passports. "I'm scared we're too out of sync, and these serve as proof."_

_"Don't," Sara said, taking the passports out of his hand. With her right hand, she held his, and with her left hand, she lovingly stroked his cheek. "I know this isn't a visit. I know you're here to start a life with me. For us to have a life together."_

_With a sad smile on his face, he stroked her cheek. "I want that more than anything, Sara. Are you sure that is what you want?"_

_Her smile was anything but sad. "Yes, Gilbert. I do." _

Things did get better between them after that conversation. Beautiful even. But once again, Grissom felt out of sync with her. Nothing had changed about his intentions: He still wanted that life with Sara, now more than ever. But had he done enough to savor and foster what they had? Why were all these circumstances in their lives fucking up the intentions? Why was he letting that happen?

Were his decisions prudent or cowardly? Was he communicated well enough?

And the biggest question, what does Sara think about all this? Did she feel the same way?

Grissom let out a long sigh after thinking that. They hadn't been communicating well at all lately. He needed to call her. Maybe they could talk before their trip. God, how he would love for her to come see him, just for a couple of days. _Would she even come?_ he thought. _If I wanted that more than anything, would she do that for me? _

But more importantly he asked himself, _Do I have the right to ask that? _

The cab was slowing to a stop in front of his apartment, so Grissom glanced at the fare meter and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. He needed a smaller bill, so he checked his side pockets and found some bills, but noticed his cellular phone wasn't there.

Grissom looked on the seat next to him, in front him, behind him and on the floor of the cab hoping it might still be with him. "Shit," he cursed. _I hope I didn't lose it in that cafe, _he thought. _Did I grab it today before I went to the Sorbonne? _

"Monsieur, nous sommes arrivés."

Grissom gave the driver his money. "Merci. Bonne nuit." He exited the cab, and briskly walked to his apartment.

Once inside, he went to the bedroom to search for his phone. Next to the cordless phone on his nightstand was the wire for the cellular charger, but no phone. Frowning, he went to the closet to check the jacket from the previous day and then headed for the kitchen. It might have been near the bowl of fruit.

Finding nothing, he grabbed the cordless phone in the kitchen and dialed his own cellular number. If it were in the apartment, he would hear it. As the sound rang in his receiver, he heard nothing, and soon his voice mail picked up.

"Shit," he cursed again. That would mean it was in his office or he had dropped it in the cafe.

Grissom let out a heavy sigh. He really hoped he hadn't lost that phone. Sure, he could buy another one, but there were photos on the phone that he loved to scroll through, especially these days. That thought led him to dial his Vegas home on the apartment phone he still held in his hand.

"Answering machine. That thing's going to be the bane of my existence." Grissom muttered under his breath as he heard the familiar message on their home phone. Although he could have hung up, he thought he would respond after the beep. "Hi honey, it's me. I was hoping I might catch you today. I was just thinking about you..."

To Grissom surprise, Sara picked up the phone. "You were _JUST_ thinking about me?"

He immediately noticed that her voice was neither flippant nor happy nor sarcastic. It was slightly caustic. This wasn't good, especially since he didn't know why she might be upset. "Sara? What's wrong?"

"I just find it odd that you say you were just thinking about me, when I called you... oh... more than an hour ago and you were too 'occupied' to talk."

Grissom rubbed his forehead. "Sara, honey, I didn't know you called. In fact, I've misplaced..."

He paused his thought because of knocking at his front door. A persistent knocking, followed with the yelling of "Gil! Professeur! S'il vous plaît. Ouvrir la porte! Gil!"

"Sara... hold on."

"What are you doing?"

"There's someone at the door." He knew who was on the other side of the door, and he really needed to get rid of her. He walked toward the front door. "Please, Sara. Just... just hold on."

As he took the cordless phone away from his ear, he could still hear the frustrated sigh that left Sara's mouth. He opened the door without looking through the peephole. "Mademoiselle Martin. Is there something urgent?"

Sylvie smiled wider than the Cheshire Cat as she held Grissom's cellular phone and wiggled it in her hand. Seeing he had the cordless phone in his hand, she surmised who was most likely on the other line and said, louder than necessary, "Gil, you silly man. You left this on the couch."

Grissom reached for the phone, but Sylvie simply put it to flush against her bosom and well-exposed cleavage. Grissom pulled his hand away, and Sylvie breezed inside the apartment, his phone in her one hand, and her clutch in the other. She spoke, and, again, her voice was louder than necessary, "Merci Gil, I would love to come in."

"Mademoiselle..."

"Gil, you know you can call me Sylvie," she teased.

"I'm talking on the phone."

"Oh," Sylvie said in a mock whisper that was ironically practically shouted. "Your wife called on your phone. She wanted you to call."

In response, Grissom tersely showed Sylvie the cordless phone in his hand. "I'm speaking with Sara, thank you for bringing the cellular, but could we talk tomorrow?"

Sylvie approached Grissom, who took a step back. It only made her take two more steps forward. "Gil, ça vous dérange si j'utilse vos toilettes?" she purred into his ear. "Juste le temps de me repoudrer le nez?"

Taking a step back, and simply wanting to get back to the conversation with his wife, Grissom waved Sylvie to the direction of the bathroom where she could "powder her nose," as she put it. "Through the bedroom, on the right."

"The bedroom, of course," Sylvie said. "Merci."

Grissom shook his head and cursed the timing of Sylvie's arrival. "Sara?" he said in the phone. "Are you still there?"

"Yes," Sara said, a trace of distance and disapproval. "I haven't gone anywhere. Who was that?"

"Sylvie Martin from the Sorbonne." Grissom let out a deep breath. "I had lost my cellular..."

"I heard. In that woman's couch."

"No, Sara. Not in her couch, dear," Grissom said, trying not to clip his voice. There had to be a reason Sara was so upset. "She asked me to meet her at a cafe to discuss final arrangements about the proposal. She was seated on a couch in the back, and I sat next to her before she, her assistant Laurent and I could move to a table. My phone must have..."

"Dropped out of your pocket," Sara interrupted. "That what that _Mademoiselle Martin_ had said when I called earlier and she answered your phone."

"She did what?" Grissom said incredulously. Now Sara's attitude made sense. "Honey, I had no idea about that. I didn't know I even misplaced my phone until I was in the taxi driving home. She must have picked up the phone immediately after I dropped it. Then she was talking with other people in the bar, she must have took the call then."

"And she felt the need to answer your phone?"

"She had a lot to drink, Sara, and people's inhibitions seem to leave them when they had a lot to drink."

"She's a bitch, Gil."

Grissom smiled. His wife. So succinct. "Well, honey, I hardly spent any time with her this evening. We talked briefly, and then I spent most of the evening talking with Laurent, her assistant."

"About what? The project?"

"Yes, some. But we talked about you, actually," Grissom said. "Do you remember Laurent, because he remembered you."

"I think so," Sara said, her attitude toned down a little. "Younger than me. Gay. Shame. He's good looking."

"He wanted to know what perfume you were wearing that evening."

"And now we add creepy to Laurent's list," Sara joked.

Grissom laughed. "No, he was being nice. His sister likes perfumes. I told him you probably had some of your essential oil mix here."

"I'm not sure if I left some there or not," Sara said.

"You know I think about you all the time, Sara," Grissom said. "On the taxi ride home, … I thought about how nice it would be to see you, even for a couple of days before you left for your trip."

Sara sighed. "Coming to see you? Gil, you're not serious about that, are you?"

Her response made him regret saying that last thought out loud. Maybe he truly didn't even have the right to voice that thought. "I'm always serious about wanting to see you," Grissom said.

"I thought we talked about this... The jet lag alone would be killer, Gil. I can't believe you'd want that."

"Sara, please, I was daydreaming," Grissom pleaded. "Yes, it would be a nice surprise, but I know it's not feasible to change any travel plans at this point. You're leaving in a week."

"OK. As long as we are on the same page," Sara added. "But what about the project? What did you discuss?"

Grissom was going to speak when his attention was drawn toward the bathroom. He heard a toilet flush and forgotten that Sylvie Martin was still in his apartment, something his wife would definitely not appreciate. "Sara, let me call you right back."

At that moment, Sylvie passed him by and said a seductive, "Merci" in the same ear he held the receiver.

"She's still there?" Sara's patience was obviously waning.

"Let me call her a taxi, and I'll call you back."

"You know what, Gil, whatever." And Sara hung up.

Grissom closed his eyes tight. That went poorly, to say the least. Part of him thought he should just let her be, but another part of him wanted to talk to her. To do that, he needed to get rid of his unwanted houseguest.

He rubbed his tired face and saw Sylvie standing next to the door, fiddling with Hank's leash, which still hung on hooks where he also kept his keys. "It's hard to let go of things so familiar, oui?"

"Shall I call you a cab or will you stay with you sister?"

The question caught Sylvie off-guard for half a second. "My sister. She is out for the evening, but should be back in an hour... or two... perhaps I could wait here?..."

"I think I should call you a taxi," Grissom said.

"If you wish," Sylvie said as he dialed the number. "Your wife? She is well?"

"Oui. Merci," Grissom said lightly, before giving instructions to the person on the line. With his back turned, Sylvie admired his ass as she continued to fiddle with the leash and keys hanging on the wall.

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Not sure how I feel about this chapter. Not sure if I got the voices right. Next chapter will be from Sara's point of view, along with someone else.

And I admit, I cheated a little within this chapter. If you can tell how I cheated, let me know. Let me know about anything. Comments and reviews are always appreciated. If you have the time, just push the review button and let me know about the story. Thanks to all who have reviewed. Means a lot.


	15. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 14**

_He started the footage and watched the video he helped produce. Harold Cummings sat nervously, the camera chronicling his every twitch of his eye, every staccato movement of his hand upon his face, arm, shoulder and neck. It was about 20 minutes into the interview and while Harold seemed pleasant enough at the start of the interview, his demeanor and attitude quickly deteriorated while he recalled his imprisonment._

"Mr. Cummings? Are you prepared to begin again?"

"What's your name again?"

"My name is Connor Headley."

"Connor Headley. Connor Headley. Connor Headley." He repeated the name as a mantra to try and commit to memory. Then he looked towards the camera equipment. "His name?"

"Mitchell Robertson is the cameraman."

Cummings closed his eyes and bent his head down, as if at prayer. "Mitchell Robertson. Mitchell Robertson. Mitchell Robertson. ... Connor Headley. Mitchell Robertson..."

"Mr. Cummings?

"Connor Headley. Mitchell Robertson..."

"Sir?"

"Connor Headley. Mitchell Robertson... Connor Headley. Mitchell Robertson... Connor Headley. Mitchell Robertson..." At this point the mantra turned ritualistic. Harold opened his eyes and looked almost hypnotically into the camera. His eyes reflect some deep emotions - sadness, fear, complete uncertainty as he continually stared into the camera as if in the soul of a soulless device.

Or maybe he could see his reflection in the concave lens of the camera. He made a sad smile and took a deep breath. 'We can continue Mr. Headley and Mr. Robertson. I don't know where I stopped. Please make sure your hand is at the appropriate distance, Mr. Headley.

No less than 37 inches. That was the amount of space Harold absolutely had to have between himself and another person - three feet and one inch to grow on. And Harold know precisely when an element of a person's body violated that designated amount of space.

"Of course, Mr. Cummings." Creating a comfortable atmosphere, no matter how ridiculous parameters might be, was key. "Before you stopped you talked about being able to feel the presence of someone as that person entered the cell."

"A specter," Harold said, his tone chilling. "A creature who seemed to move about that cell as if it was a boundless domain. At first, I had no idea how big that cell was. It could have been the size of a stadium, especially when that specter entered. I would be paralyzed when he entered. And he knew it. Feeded on that."

"Is that when you heard him? What did he say to you."

"I'm a failure and a fraud. I need to be punished for my sins. I'm horrible. I'm horrible. I'm unnecessary. I'm evil. I'm death. I'm failure. I belong deep in the ground, parasites feeding on my flesh" Cummings said, again holding that trance-like state. "Then I felt the whipping, the stinging, the burning, the silence."

"How did that make you feel?"

Harold put his head up. "It happened so many times. The torment happened so many times. I could not sleep. Even in silence I could hear the specter calling my name, feeding on my fear."

"When did those voices stop?"

Harold returned his gaze to eye level. "They never left."

"What else can you recall, Mr. Cummings."

"I could smell him," Harold said sadly, like a beaten man. "Evil has a smell. It's malicious odor forming an evil smile on the specter's face, a smile I couldn't see but one I could feel."

"How does evil smell?"

_While the question needed to be asked, he didn't need to hear an answer. He knew what Harold truly meant. He smelled that evil as well. _

"Sweet, yet deadly. Hot, like heat from a fire. Sharp, like nails ripping your skin," Harold said.

"You said the voices never left..."

"YOUR HAND, MR. HEADLEY!"

"I apologize. I am moving it to the edge of the table. Is that sufficient?"

_He could tell Harold mentally calculating the measurement. While there were pieces of the man damaged beyond repair, there were other parts sharpened by the experience. His senses. His awareness of proximity. Fascinating yet tragic._

"Yes. Sufficient."

"You said the voices never left?"

"I still hear them from time to time," Cummings said. "I know what people think of me."

"Tell us."

"They think I'm crazy. I have episodes and I am out of my mind."

"How often are the episodes?"

Harold shook his head. "Spontaneous. Hard to quantify." Harold laughed, resigned of his fate. "You know, people used to fear me. And now? Now, I fear people. People clamored to be around me. To touch me. To be in my very presence. I radiated the spirit of God, they said. Leader of a mega-church whose touch healed and and empowered. I had been to the mountaintop and touched the sky." Harold paused. The ghost of the smile erased from his face. "And now? My armor tarnished. My spirit soured, tainted. There is no more Harold Cummings, spiritual leader. There is no more Harold Cummings. All that is left of me is a disgraced agoraphobic who hears voices of evil in his head. Never to heal properly. Never to be that man again. Still seeking to find what is left of me."

_He stopped the footage. He'd been over Harold's interview again and again, ever since they had taken the footage more than a week previously. How did it happen that Harold Cummings and he experienced similar situations, but Harold seemed broken lost. He wasn't broken to pieces. He picked up and started again. It didn't seem right. He thought he could find the key through his fellow survivor. _

_But there was so many differences between himself and Harold Cummings. Harold's motivations for life before being taken were so dissimilar to his own. He was taken for so many different reasons and released because of something out his control and his captor's control. He saw his survival as a new lease on life. _

_Maybe the answer lies in witnessing and studying someone while in captivity. He had prepared for that possibility. But not Harold Cummings. Someone smarter. Stronger. Different motivations in life. _

_Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes. Their interview proved interesting as well, but so did their backgrounds. There was really nothing that could have been revealed in the interview that he didn't already know about their experiences. _

_Marshall Landry might have taken much of Harold Cummings' work skills, but he did not do the same to him. Thanks to computer espionage skills, he was able to access psychological and work files on both CSIs. Both victims of kidnapping. Both survivors. Both strong. Both with different motivations in life as compared to Harold Cummings. And both dealt with the aftermath of their experiences in different ways. Interesting ways, but different ways. One delved into his work, while the other almost let her work consume her. Yet, she returned._

_He would go back to look over his research again to try and solve the big question. Which to choose? _

_Perhaps Marshall Landry's upcoming interview in two days will help solve that riddle. Although, he already believed he made his choice._

* * *

Sara's anger continued to bubble as minutes ticked on the clock. She would not say she overreacted about that woman's audacious behavior. Taking a man's phone and answering a call from his wife is not cool. It's lewd. And while she could tell Grissom didn't know what Sylvie Martin did, she wasn't convinced her husband understood the ramifications of that woman's actions.

This wasn't a game. Sara could tell that from thousands of miles away. But her dumbass husband couldn't see that right in front of his fucking eyes. Or ears. She heard that minx's little "Merci." How could he be so fucking stupid about it?

OK, maybe dumbass is a bit of an overreaction. Grissom is aloof. Has always been.

But there was more at stake now. She felt the tension in their relationship. She knew things weren't good. Yes, they loved each other, but how much more of this distance could they take?

She shut that feeling out. _If I don't think about it, it can't hurt me. _Yes, that was a simplistic, almost childish way of dealing with things, but, honestly, what choice did she have right now? So much hinged on what might happen on this trip. She just needed to focus on that. Focus on those plans.

And what they hell was that whole "Maybe you could come up for a couple of days" nonsense? Is he out of his mind? Lately, it's Sara who does the traveling. Fighting against garbage plaguing Vegas to get into a cramped sardine can in the sky that's a basic nightmare for even the most mild germaphobe to get to Paris, where she still struggles with the language.

So, sure, Gil. I would LOVE to pop in for a few days before I embark on a week long sojourn in the Central American jungle. All at the last minute. Who would change travel plans this late in the game at all? Yes, flying to Paris on a whim might be a wonderfully romantic gesture to make, but it's also and utterly unrealistic!

The dumbass.

Just then, the phone rang. She knew it was Gil. She knew she should answer it, but she needed to calm down. If not, her anger would spill over in the conversation. It already spilled out when she hung up on him.

_He's not a dumbass,_ she told herself, _he's my husband who just doesn't get it sometimes._

The phone rings for the fourth time.

_I know he would never do anything to compromise our marriage. If someone would try to sabotage our marriage, I have to trust him. _

Fifth ring.

_He's trying to do the right thing. I might not be what I want, but ... he should know what I want by now... right?_

The answering machine picks up with the short message of "You have called" and then "please leave a message."

"The answering machine?" Grissom questioned out loud. "Sara? Honey, are you there?"

Sara picked up the phone before he might end the conversation. "Is the bitch gone?"

So much for calming down. But at least she didn't end the sentence with "dumbass."

Grissom sighed. "Sylvie is gone. Yes."

"I'm sorry, but she pissed me off."

"I know."

"Why did she come into the apartment? You were on the phone."

"I told you, Sara, she had a lot to drink tonight, and from the way she was acting, I suspect she had more to drink after I left," Grissom said. "She asked if she could use the restroom. What was I supposed to do? Grab my phone and shove her out of the doorway before slamming the door on her?"

Sara paused before she offered a careful response. "Yes."

Grissom let out a small laugh. "You sound like Amalia."

"Oh," Sara responded. "Does she not share an appreciation for Mademoiselle Martin?"

"Not really," Grissom said honestly. "The other day when Amalia..." Grissom stopped his thought. _Relaying that story would only make matters worse_, he thought. "The two of them don't get along that well."

Sara could tell Grissom curtailed his own story. "Gil, I don't trust that woman."

"Sara, I've already explained to you why I have to cooperate with this woman." He failed to curb the frustration in his tone. "She's aggressive. I understand that. But do you really think I would let things get out of hand?"

Again, there was silence from Sara, which made Grissom feel uneasy. "Sara?"

"Be careful of her, Gil."

Grissom took a deep breath. "When I called you tonight, this wasn't where I hoped our conversation would go."

"Well, it's where the conversation went, Gil."

_This is getting harder and harder. Why are we doing this to each other? _he thought. "It's been a long day for me and you have a shift coming up. I... I need to get to sleep."

"Fine."

"I miss you."

Sara sighed. "I know, babe. I miss you, too."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"I..." but Sara hung up before she could complete his sentence.

Sara never told him about her meeting with Connor Headley. Grissom never told her about some of the things discussed about his proposal.

After hanging up, Sara sat upon their bed with an queasy feeling in her stomach. Grissom, on the other hand, sat down at his kitchen table and grabbed his cellular. He punched some buttons upon it. Not to make a call, but to scroll through photos.

Together, yet separate, they shared the same sentiment about their phone conversation. _What a waste of time._

* * *

Back in Vegas, Sara heard the phone ring again. She looked at the ID, and answered. "Sidle."

"Sara Sidle, it's Fred Mandel from Hawthorne. How is the most beautiful lady in Vegas doing?"

"I'm fine, Fred, thank you." Mandel's voice and attitude reminded Sara of a hard-selling salesman. Or, as Grissom had once described, a hard-selling, sleazy, used-car salesman.

"Listen, doll, I know you're scheduled to leave Vegas in seven days, but we were wondering if we could reschedule your itinerary two days prior?"

Sara laughed nervously. "Change my itinerary just like that?"

"I know. I know. It's probably a pain in your ass. But if you could accommodate, it would really, really be appreciated. I mean REALLY appreciated," Mandel said. "We've had some unforeseen travel circumstances we need to deal with, and we need to start your tour two days earlier."

"Umm... I'll check," Sara said. "By really appreciated, are you saying?..."

"It would not go unnoticed, Sar."

Sara took a deep breath. If this would be a guarantee for the grant, she was sure she could swing a rearrangement at work. "OK. Yeah. I can let you know tomorrow morning if I'm successful with work agreeing to that."

"Oh, that would be great, Sar. Truly," Mandel said. "I'll send you the revised itinerary in a few minutes."

"I don't have the work approval yet."

"Oh, like that's going to be a problem for our No. 1 grant candidate," Mandel said. "You do what you can. If it falls through, we'll deal with that in the morning."

"OK," Sara said, a little uneasy. "If that's how you want to work it."

"Sending it to your email, right now, doll. See you soon."

He hung up, and Sara lied back on the bed.

Maybe last minute travel arrangements weren't impossible.

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Bored yet? Let me know. Reviews and comments make a difference. I appreciate them all.


	16. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I owe nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 15**

Amalia arrived at her desk at the appointed time of 8:15. She expected her boss to be arriving in a few minutes. She went to prepare a cup of tea, when she saw a note under her tea mug.

Written in French, it read: _"Amalia, Professor Grissom might mistakenly believe he has a dinner date with myself and my staff concerning his textbook proposal. Please inform him this is not the case. He believes you scheduled the appointment, and you have not."_  
- Mlle. Martin"

_I never told the Professeur about a dinner appointment,_ Amalia thought. T_hat woman is scheming maquinadora._

She was going to open Grissom's office door, when she noticed it was slightly ajar. But she locked the door before she left. She was sure of it. She bent down and checked the garbage to see if cleaning people mistakenly entered, saw there was still garbage in the receptacle. Had someone been in his office before she arrived?

She stood up and jumped when she saw Grissom standing in front of her with a big smile on his face. "Looking for something, madam?"

Amalia playfully swatted his shoulder. "_Petit coquin!_ You scared me."

"Me? Naughty?" Grissom teased. "You're the one snooping in my garbage."

"Snooping. Such a word. I was not snooping. Only... investigating," Amalia said, using her hands to flourish her statement. "Professeur, did you come back to your office last night after class? The door was ajar."

Grissom thought and then nodded his head.

"Did you remember to lock the door when you left?"

Grissom placed his briefcase on his desk. "I honestly don't recall. It's possible." He let out a large yawn.

"You look so tired today," Amalia said, noticing the bags under Grissom's eyes. "Did you have a late evening or not sleep well?"

"Both," Grissom said as he plopped in his office chair. "And I have a dinner meeting with Sylvie Martin's staff about the proposal tonight. I was hoping you might join me?"

"Professeur, you do not have an appointment," Amalia said. "Why do you think you have an appointment with them?"

"You wrote me a reminder note about it," Grissom said, searching through papers on his desk. "I was speaking with Mademoiselle Martin yesterday when she came in. She reminded me about the dinner. She even showed me the note."

The two of them searched through the reminder messages, but didn't find the one he had seen before. "I swear it was here yesterday, and it looked like it was written in your handwriting."

Amalia shook her head. "I'm sorry, Professeur, but I simply do not recall any meeting of that sort or writing a message to you. I can check for the carbon copy in my book?"

"No, don't bother. It is fine," Grissom said. "I spoke with Sylvie last night. I really don't think there is anything more that can be discussed. We are just waiting for a decision."

"You met with Mademoiselle Martin?"

"Yes, she was pestering me to get a drink," Grissom said. "I was simply trying to get her off my back." Grissom could tell Amalia was ready to offer a sassy remark. "Don't say it."

Amalia rolled her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me you were meeting her?"

"I was going to ask you to join me, but I remembered you had that afternoon appointment with Aloisio. I didn't want to bother you," Grissom said. "How did it go?"

"Quite well, merci," Amalia said. "But I wish I could have been with you when you discussed the project."

Grissom felt guilty. He tried to keep Amalia involved in the project. He worked on the proposal off of company time, and he asked Amalia to translate it, again off company time, which she agreed to do. Grissom compensated Amalia for her time, but always believed she was a big owner of the project as well, not only due to her translation skills but her grant proposal skills as well. "Amalia, I had believed tonight we could go together to discuss the proposal with Sylvie's staff. Yesterday was just a quick drink to … appease Sylvie." Again he saw she might offer a retort, so Grissom added. "And for your information, Laurent was there the whole time. I actually talked to Laurent more than Sylvie."

Amalia smiled. She didn't like her boss being alone with Sylvie Martin. "Did either of them say anything encouraging?"

Grissom stood up and gestured for Amalia to sit down in the seat on the other side of his desk, which she did. He then went to close the door to give them privacy, but stopped. "Did you have your tea yet?"

"It can wait," Amalia said, with a smile. "I am more interested in last night's conversation."

Grissom closed the door and then sat in his chair. He clasped his hands in front of him on the desk. "Well, we didn't actually discuss much," Grissom said. "But … Amalia, it just doesn't look encouraging at all."

Amalia's smile faded. She knew what that meant, not just a possible dissolution of the proposal they both worked hard upon, but a possible dissolution of Grissom's employment . "You are not going to stay at Sorbonne for the next semester, are you Professeur?"

Grissom failed to meet her eyes. "I'm … I'm still not sure, Amalia."

"What exactly did they say? Perhaps it is not as … negative as you might perceive."

"Well, Sylvie said the proposal was well-written, and Laurent said the translation was superb, which I said was all do to you." They exchanged soft smiles with one another. "However, she just went back to the notion of me accepting to another term as leverage for the possibility of accepting the proposal."

"As you would say, 'A familiar road?'"

"Precisely," Grissom said. "So I said the proposal should be accepted, before I agree to staying."

"And?"

Grissom shrugged his shoulders. "And... well, nothing, really. She wanted to meet at this cafe because it is frequented by Dr. Edouard Germaine, who did show up."

Amalia sat up straighter in her chair. "What did you say to him?"

"Me, nothing. Sylvie suggested she talk to him because I would look too pushy," Grissom said. "She approached him and talked to him."

"Pushy? Nonsense," Amalia said. "Do you know what they discussed?"

Grissom snickered. "I was on the other side of the room with Laurent. I'm not quite versed in lip reading French."

"There is no telling what Mademoiselle Martin would said to Dr. Germaine," Sylvie said seriously.

"Well, she did assure me she is on our side." Grissom said with a smile, which garnered him the exact eye roll he expected from his young assistant. "The bottom line is while the proposal is solid, the subject matter of entomology is a tough sell."

Amalia shook her head in the negative. "I do not understand why that would be."

Grissom looked at her and smiled. "I was told entomology is not sexy enough."

Amalia chuckled. "I'm guessing those were the words of Mademoiselle?"

"Oui."

"Nonsense. Pure nonsense," Amalia said. "Since when do bugs have to be sexy? Should we draw pictures of bugs in lingerie?"

Grissom laughed. "Actually they are already naked all the time. That's sexy, right?"

"Precisely," Amalia agreed. Both enjoyed the moment of levity.

"Professeur, if I may," Amalia said. "I believe you should address Dr. Germaine about this topic."

"You believe so?"

"What can it hurt?" Amalia said. "You should be able to speak for yourself on this topic. Not let Mademoiselle Martin speak for you."

Grissom sat and reflected on Amalia's words. "I don't know, Amalia..."

"I can sense that you might not want to work here next semester," the young woman said honestly. "For me, I would be sad. You are a good boss. But I understand you want to be with Madam Grissom, and that might not happen if you stay in France."

Again, Grissom could not meet Amalia's eyes. She was hitting a sore subject.

"But that is still no reason why the Sorbonne would not be interested in your textbook. At the very least, you should know where changes should be made in case you pursue another financial avenue. Oui?"

What she said made sense, Grissom could not deny it. "Perhaps you are right, Amalia."

"Let us... how would you say?" Amalia concentrated and looked off into the distance. "Let us... go out with a boom!"

With that, Grissom met her eyes. "With a bang."

"You Americans. Boom. Bang. Is there a difference?" Amalia stood up. "I will get us tea and return with a memo pad so you we can propose a letter. Oui?"

"Oui," Grissom replied as he watched Amalia grin and retrieve an empty mug off his desk. "And don't forget a sketch pad."

"Pardon?"

"For the sexy bug sketches. I'll draw the boobs."

For the second time that morning, Amalia swatted his shoulder. "_Petit coquin!_"

Grissom softly laughed as she exited the office.

* * *

"So you want to leave us two days early?" DB looked at the vacation request in his hand given to him by Sara.

"If it's not a problem," Sara said. "I got a call from the organization that is sponsoring my trip, and they needed to begin my itinerary two days ahead of schedule. I am willing to work extra shifts before the trip, if that would help."

"Well, we can look at that," DB said. "I was thinking you were changing the travel plans yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's been a while since you were with your husband. I thought you wanted to change plans because maybe your husband was coming to town earlier or joining you..." DB let his voice trail off to allow Sara to fill in the blanks.

But she didn't. "Like, I said, it was a request from the organization I am working with."

"OK." DB could tell there he couldn't get any more from information from her. "Well, I'm not going to say it is an impossibility, but it is last minute."

"I realize that," Sara said. "If I could pick up any extra shifts..."

"Hamilton said he is down one person for days because of the flu. I don't like sharing, but perhaps you could pick a shift with him," DB said, as he picked up his own schedule. "You're supposed to be off tomorrow, and Sanders is on. If you could convince him to trade with you, I would be willing to allow that."

"But that still leaves you short for one night," Sara added.

"I'll give you till the end of this shift to figure that out," DB said, removing a slip from his desk. "You can try your persuasive skills at the crime scene. Its messy and your CSI colleagues on scene might need backup."

* * *

"I never thought I'd feel so violated in a candy store."

Morgan had a sad look on her face as she stood in the doorway of Patchy's Sweet Tooth Emporium. A break-in left a clerk dead and left the shop devastated as no candy was left in its barrel, package or dispenser. The person or people behind the crime were obviously looking for something and it didn't seem to be jawbreakers and sweet tarts. "What did these gummy bears ever do to anyone?"

"I have to say, this is a first for me," Sara said, and she and Greg made their way inside. "Terror among taffy."

"Marshmallow bunny meltdown," Morgan began as she began to take photos of the scene. "Peppermint in a panic. Confectionery calamity."

"Atomic fireball blast," Greg countered.

Morgan stopped taking photos. "That doesn't work at all."

"What do you mean?" Greg said. "It's a good pun."

"Atomic fireballs aren't candy," Morgan said seriously. "They are punishment."

"Fireballs are good candy. Aren't they, Sara?" Greg shouted over his shoulder so Sara could hear him in the other room.

"What are you talking about?" Sara said poking her head out of the room.

"Morgan, here, refuses to believe that fireballs are not candy."

"That's because they aren't," Morgan said under her breath.

Greg smiled. "Anyway, don't you agree with me that they fireballs are awesome candies. And please remember I am covering a shift this week for you, out of the kindness of my heart."

"Really, Greg? You're going to pull that card for a candy debate?" Sara said.

"Are you saying you aren't grateful your trip won't be canceled?"

Sara smiled. "No, Greg. I am grateful. Thank you again for doing this."

"Are you leaving early for Central America, Sara?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, last minute change."

"For an international flight? I didn't even know you could do that. Must cost you a fortune," Morgan added. "You going by yourself?"

"Yeah, but my sponsoring organization is paying for the change," Sara said. "They need me there earlier, so it was nice that Greg is covering for me."

"And you get in a couple of days sooner," Morgan said. "That will be nice in case you want to spend time at home."

Sara just shrugged her shoulders.

Greg could tell his friend of more than a decade wanted to change the subject. "So? The verdict?"

Sara sighed. "On the fence."

Both Morgan and Greg balked at the response with "come on" and "take a side."

"I'm being honest," Sara said. "Greg, as much as I am grateful you are trading one shift with me and taking my other, while I'm not a fan of fireballs, I guess for some people they are … flavorful."

"I'm taking it!" Greg shouted. "Concede defeat, Brody!"

But Morgan did not. "Not a candy. Never was. Never will be."

Sara laughed. "I'm going to the truck. I should've refilled my kit with small, evidence bags. Be right back."

When Sara was out the door, and well out of earshot, Morgan spoke up. "Don't you find it odd that she never talks about her husband?"

Greg looked uncomfortable, but tried not to show it. "I don't know. It's not like any of us talk about too much personal stuff."

"Yeah, but Sara kind of goes out of her way not to talk about him," Morgan said. "Even when she talked about this trip it was 'my sponsoring organization' and 'they need me.' Then when I said something about time at home, when I thought maybe the husband would come down, she just shrugs her shoulders."

Greg just stayed silent.

"Makes you wonder if they're even still together," Morgan mused.

Greg was going to try and say something, but Sara walked back into the store. "You two solve your fireball dispute?"

"Absolutely," Morgan quickly said. "Not a candy."

Sara smiled and went back to the other room, leaving Morgan feeling smug and Greg feeling like something was wrong.

Something that didn't involve fireballs.

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Reviews, comments, concerns are most appreciated.


	17. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 16**

DB heard the knock on his door, but didn't take his attention from his new electronic device. "Enter."

A smiling Sara Sidle entered. "I just wanted to know if you found a note on your desk about my early leave and rescheduling?"

DB looked up. "Charmed Mr. Sanders did you?"

Sara smiled as he approached his desk. "He's a gracious guy."

"He might not feel so gracious if you end up getting that grant and leaving us," DB said.

"I'd rather take things one step at a time," Sara said. "I didn't know if you could recognize my chicken scratch. I could email you the changes."

"Not necessary," DB said. "I'm not going to change the scheduling in the computer. I know I can trust you will do the work and shifts will be covered."

"Absolutely," Sara said. "And thanks again for allowing me this last minute change."

DB simply put his hands together a prayer pose and bowed. "Now, please don't do that again."

"I will try not to."

"You're going to be busy. Looks like working non-stop for five days, including a couple of double shifts till you leave," DB said. "You sure you won't be too maxed out by the time you're heading to Central America? You're not exactly staying at the Bellagio when you are down there. You need to think about your health."

"I'll be fine. I'll catch up on sleep on the plane, and it's not like I'm not used to the arrangements in the jungle. I lived like that for a while," Sara motioned to the cellular phone in DB's hand. "New work phone?"

"No. I still have the flip phone for work use only," DB said, pointing to the phone ever-present on the clip on his belt. "This," DB said of the shiny, 4G phone, "is the new family model. That way, when I'm at work, I have the option of putting this phone on my desk and keep my work phone with me at all times."

"Hmm...," Sara said as she looked at DB's new phone model. "You know, that looks familiar?"

"Let me guess? You have this model, too?" DB said. "You, along with my kids, my wife, Darryl on days and 80 percent of the staff at Trader Joe's..."

"The exact same model in one family?" Sara asked. "That might be a problem"

"During the family meeting, it was decided that everyone should have the same model for the sake of equality," DB said. "But, you do raise a very observant concern."

Sara, with her arms crossed in front of her chest, watched as her boss opened his desk drawer and procured a multi-colored rectangle, which she recognized as something from DB's favorite band. He peeled a strip from one side of the paper to expose its adhesive.

"This will offer me insurance that my model will be recognized uniquely as my own." DB smacked his sticker on the back of his phone and flashed it in front of Sara. "What do you think?"

"You know what they say," Sara said, backing up to the door. "I lit up from Reno. I was trailed by 20 hounds..."

"... Didn't get to sleep that night, till the morning came around," DB finished, as he watched Sara exit his office. Once she left, he muttered to himself, "I've got to give her credit. She knows her dead."

* * *

Drab and dull, the walls of the interview room at the penitentiary didn't allow for much creativity when trying to find a good backdrop for Marshall Landry's second interview. Philip Beck took a light meter out of the pocket of his well-worn blue jeans. His lanyard bearing his credentials hung around his neck. As he did whenever he shot film at a maximum security prison, he wore his lucky Pearl Jam t-shirt that he got from his favorite concert in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The interview would include two camera angles, one of which would be a tight shot of the man interviewed — Marshall Landry, who would be seated by himself in a small room with plexiglass serving as one wall. Connor Headley would sit on the other side of the glass, along with Beck. Headley's space comprised of a seat in front of a counter that measured two feet in depth and four-and-a-half feet long. He looked like he was in a cubicle with two walls separating his space from the interview rooms on each side of him.

Landry would be seated in an enclosed space of the same width as Headley's cubicle. However, unlike Headley, behind Landry would be a cinder block wall that encased the sole entrance and egress of the pill-box room — a steel-reinforced door with a small window situated as the center of the door about three-fourths of the way up. The window, a thick, double-paned panel that sandwiched two reinforcement bars, would allow a guard to view the prisoner, if necessary, and, if Beck captured his shot just right, would allow a view see a blurred, out-of-focal-point-range silhouette of someone outside the cell.

The young, but seasoned cameraman situated one camera behind Headley and slightly to the right to try and bracket for that shot. On the far right, he situated another other camera to get a clear, tight shot at the position where Landry would sit.

"Please let me know if I need to move, Mr. Beck," Headley said politely. He had already witnessed Beck's routine in a previous interview with Marshall Landry.

"Don't worry, Headley," Beck said, as he continued to fine tune his equipment. "That giant noggin' of yours is out of the shot."

"So good to know," Headley replied, as he continued to write notes. "However, I did get a haircut for this very occasion, all of them, in fact."

Beck groaned. Headley was straight-laced, but easy to work with, so he would let that punishable pun slide this time. "You're a regular comedian, Headley."

With his set-up complete, Beck leaned against the cubicle wall and checked his watch. No matter what, interviews in prisons were always done according to the prison's time, not the visitors. Beck saw that Headley was finished writing notes and had formed things into piles in front of him. Dressed in a pressed, white dress shirt buttoned to the top with the exception of the top-most button, the researcher sat straight in his chair with his hands clasped together and situated on the counter.

"Hey, Headley," Beck started, "you think we're going to need another interview with this hump after today?"

Headley looked at Beck before speaking. "I believe that question will be answered at the conclusion of this interview, Mr. Beck. And may I say, I'm not sure if we should address Mr. Landry as 'hump.'"

"If you think I'd ever say that to his face, you're out of your mind, dude," Beck said. "Let's just call that our private nickname for him."

Beck saw the ghost of a smile on Headley's face before he turned his attention once again to the empty cell in front of him.

The duo waited quietly for another 10 minutes, until the door of the empty cell opened and a guard holding the right arm of a shackled Marshall Landry escorted him into the room. Landry's ankle restraints prompted him to take small steps to his seat. Before taking a seat, the guard removed the chain that hung vertically in front of Landry's body and connected the ankle restraints to the arm restraints. Once that chain was removed, the guard prompted Landry to sit on the singular chair in front of the glass. The guard then left Landry's side and exited out the cell door. Landry and the men viewing him on the other side of the glass could hear the loud locking of the door.

Landry looked straight at Headley, the two of them looking as if they were in a staring contest, until Landry cocked his head to the side and took a measuring glance up and down the researcher. He stared at the face of the man in front of him again and brought out in a smile. He then looked into one of the camera's and spoke. "Either one of you assholes going to say something?"

Beck ignored the comment and kept his focus on his shot and his camera equipment. And Headley didn't move an inch as he spoke. "Hello, Mr. Landry. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. We hope not to take too much of your time."

"Hello, Mr. Landry. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Landry repeated in a mocking voice. "You sound like you're an insurance agent reviewing my homeowner's policy, for Christ's sake."

With an ever-pleasant, measured demeanor, Headley went right to business. "We are going to start the video and audio now, Mr. Landry." Headley introduced himself and offered the day, time and location of the interview and the purpose of the documentary, as field work and preliminary research requested by Colton Chapman, of Hardline Productions.

"We are here at the facility to do a follow-up interview with Mr. Marshall Landry," Headley said as he concluded his introduction. "Mr. Landry, if you could please recognize the camera as consent for the interview.

Landry let out a sick, low chuckle before speaking, never leaving his eyes from Headley's face. "What the hell is this all about? We had already spoken for close to three hours before. Did you you not have enough time with me?"

Before Headley could open his mouth, Landry quickly continued. "I'm beginning to think you two are having fantasies about me. Especially you, Headley. The way you look at me with such awe and intensity. Hanging on my very word. If there is one thing my … experiences … in observing people in a closed environment have taught me is judging a person's body language."

"Is that what this is about, Mr. …. Headley?" Landry asked, his eyes dark and soulless. "Are you thinking about me? Has it turned sexual? Thinking about me in this small, enclosed room. Nothing between us but this plexiglass that allows you … to... see … everything. A guard just outside, unable to hear our softer voices and unable to see exactly where my hands are and what I am doing. And your hands? Clasped in front of you. How badly do you want to place them in your lap, Mr. … Headley. How badly do you want to feel yourself as you watch me place my hands in my own lap." Landry put his shackled hands in his lap. "Is that better, Mr. … Headley? That camera so tight on my frame, do you think about me jacking off for you while I'm shackled like this? Is that what you want, Mr. … Headley."

"Mr. Landry," Headley said, refusing to take Landry's bait. "I had some follow-up questions for you concerning the number of victims you had kidnapped and tortured."

"Well," Landry said with a smile, "you certainly know how to break a mood? Or... is that what you think about to keep your interest flowing? Because those topics are interesting."

"It has come to my attention that an investigator believed, and still believes, that there was a victim who you had kidnapped, but that person escaped from your capture," Headley said matter-of-factly. "I wanted to speak about that and if and how an escaped victim might have changed your protocol."

In a flash, Landry's expression changed. "If you wanted to talk about fairy tales, you should be interviewing a 4-year-old child."

"I am assuming that would mean you are in dispute with a highly-trained investigator's opinion of your case?" Headley continued to speak in a controlled, unemotional voice. "Do you remember being queried about that theory during an interrogation?"

Landry leaned back in his chair, his demeanor clearly demonstrating his disappointment in the topic presented. "I sat across two investigators. Sidle didn't say much, not like that fairy-tale peddling investigator, Grissom. Yes, I remember the ridiculous conversation. A conversation, I might add, that had absolutely no quantified evidence behind it and proceeded to go nowhere."

"This ridiculous conversation seemed to upset you greatly when Mr. Grissom brought it up," Headley said. "And, if I might add, you do not seem pleased that I have brought it up as well."

"I might be locked up and spend an enormous amount of time twiddling my thumbs, but that doesn't mean I appreciate talking about nonsense."

Headley realized he needed to change the flow of the conversation. "Why do you think the investigators challenged you about the number of victims?"

"Hubris, perhaps," Landry proposed, the tension from his body subsiding slightly. "A bit of sensationalism. I'm sure they hoped to spur a 'Eureka!' moment upon the whole investigation. But no matter how hard they pushed, they simply couldn't."

Landry placed his shackled hands back upon the counter and seem to mimic his own hands into the position Headley held. "In the end, I had to supply them with all the details and let them in on the secrets of the case."

"So you are stating that no one escaped your capture?" Headley asked again.

Landry leaned toward the plexiglass. "While some people might become inconsequential, no one... no one escapes me."

"And you state that in regards to someone other than Harold Cummings who survived your capture?"

Landry smiled. "How is Harold? Still unable to have anyone come near him? What is the distance now?... Three feet? More?"

Without judgment or repulsion, Headley moved forward in the conversation instead of taking the bait. "So are you solely speaking of Mr. Cummings, in regards to my query?"

Landry eyed Headley suspiciously. "Remind me again, Mr. … Headley. You are filming this interview for...?"

"As stated at the beginning of this conversation and in my written inquiry to you, this is research requested by Mr. Colton Chapman, of Hardline Productions."

"Of course," Landry said. "I tell you what, Mr. … Headley. I'm going to give you a 'Eureka' moment. Something you probably are seeking and something I feel I should share."

"Mr. Landry, you are free to offer comments that relate to the topic at hand," Headley said, "but I would ask your comments do pertain to the specific subject related to the documentary."

"The documentary centers overall on the victims of serial killers who had survived while others had perished. Isn't that the premise, Mr. … Headley?"

While Headley didn't appreciate the way Landry would pause upon his name, he didn't let it show. "You are correct, Mr. Landry."

"One thing you have to remember about surviving is it comes with scars. Deep, heavy, sometimes crushing scars, not just upon the skin but under it as well," Landry said. "Like I said before, I might have a lot of time on my hands in that cell, but I know my time is running out. My sentence will lead me at some point to the death chamber, and, as they say, I'm on the short list. And I'm will to wager that's why you are so damn interested in me, Mr. … Headley. Find out what you can before you won't be able to ask Marshall Landry anymore questions."

"I am here at the request of Mr. Chapman. He made the choice to contact you. Not me."

Landry laughed outright. "If that is what you choose to believe."

Headley sat still, offering no evidence of being frazzled or startled by Landry's comment. His face only implied one thing - patience.

Landry eyed Headley carefully, then continued. "I choose my victims because they deserved punishment for crimes. Crimes against me, against society. Their sins of spiritual corruption, lack of moral fortitude and hypocrisy, prostitution, computerized manipulation of financial accounts, exploitation of the young, abuse on the vulnerable and drug trafficking necessitated severe retribution."

"Your dogma of retribution," Headley clarified, "which you followed as you waged a war of worthiness against society's failed moral compasses."

Landry flashed sinister smile. "Oh, how I do appreciate a person who understands and recalls my mission." Landry leaned even closer to the glass. "None of those people... not one of them... had a chance of survival, not even Harold, who might be labeled as a 'survivor,' but he is nothing but the shell of the man he once was."

Then Landry leaned back, and reflected for a moment before speaking again. "It was not just about suffering; it was about submission. Submission to the fact that these people were not worthy of the life they had because they had wronged so egregiously. That is why, Mr. … Headley, some of the victims died at their own hands. I gave them a knife, but did they use it to fight back? No," Landry said, peppering his response with a cackle. "They took the knife, ripped their skin open at the wrists and at the neck and drained the life blood from their own bodies. By their hands. Their final resting place preserved by the outlines on the floor."

Headley interrupted. "However, Mr. Cummings..."

But Landry quickly silenced the researcher. "Cold feet. Cowardly remorse. He started and then begged for me to finish him. Begging me to slash him over and over. I complied, but then I screamed at him, 'You portray yourself as Christ's best fuckin' friend! If that is true, you must take a final journey in the desert!'" Landry recalled. "Cummings said nothing. He knew I was right! What could he possibly say?"

"Did he say stop?"

"He said nothing," Landry said. "And that is what made him weak. That is what makes him the antithesis of a survivor then and now."

"In the end, they all had a role in their demise, both before I found them and after," Landry continued. "But, Mr. … Headley, if I were to do this again, I would seek different people. Not those who are weak in moral fiber, but those who are strong, passionate, driven, and not by greed or lust, but by a sense of good. It is only from those people that you will ever find the answers of what makes a survivor a survivor."

Landry shut his mouth and sat still in his seat, a look of satisfaction on his face. Headley sat on the other side of the glass and scribbled a few more notes before meeting Landry's gaze.

"I believe my end of the follow-up is complete, Mr. Landry," Headley said after a moment of silence. "May I ask if there is anything further you would like to add?"

Landry smiled and uttered one more word.

"Eureka."

The prisoner then stood up from his seat, turned around to face the door of his cell and banged loudly on it. Landry could see the guard look through the window and gesture Landry to turn around. Landry complied, turned around and placed his hands, palms down, upon the counter. The guard entered, secured the chain from the leg shackles to the arm shackles and escorted Landry out.

Both Beck and Headley were silent as Landry exited. Once there was nothing more in his camera's frame, Beck stopped the video and looked at Headley, who was scribbling more notes and pausing every once in a while to scratch his forearm.

"That was intense," Beck said softly, somberly, as he packed up the equipment.

Headley closed his notes and folders. "Yes, Mr. Beck, it was."

"I don't know about you, but I'm done with this hump," Beck uttered as he secured the last of his equipment.

Headley stood up from his seat. "I'll help you take the equipment out."

The two walked a short distance around the corner of the cubicle towards a different door that represented their exit. They knocked lightly on the door, and a guard on the other side opened it and escorted the men through the corridors of the facility. Before reaching the final building before the parking lot, the trio walked through an outdoor fenced corridor in which the only sound they heard was the buzz of the electric wire cradling the fences.

After gaining clearance to exit the penitentiary, they walked to their vehicle. The sprawling campus of the ominous correctional facility stood behind them, and the desolate landscape of Nevada's desert surrounded them.

As they packed their vehicle, Beck turned to Headley. "Dude, I have to tell ya, you really held your own in there. You deserve a drink."

Headley looked at the younger man and let out a long sigh. In a rare moment, the researcher spoke uncensored. "Let's just get the hell out of goddamn place."

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Sara and DB borrowed the lyrics of the Grateful Dead's "Friend of the Devil."

I have to apologize for the lateness of this chapter. I really hope to be better about updating. I hope this wasn't too long and boring and was worth the wait. Comments and reviews are most appreciated.


	18. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 17**

_"While some people might become inconsequential, no one... no one escapes me."_

As I watched him and heard him say that, I knew Landry was speaking about me. After all, that's all I was to Landry then — inconsequential.

It was 2006 and I worked for Stanton Davis, upcoming financial guru. It was good work. Paid great and under the table. Everything I did was like... on an anonymous level. All I did was punch in code. I didn't think about what the code might do or why Stanton did it. I guess I figured Stanton did what he did for a reason. All I did was listen to him say things like, "Hey, is there any way you could have some kind of tracker that tags along to fund transfers?" and I would just punch code.

Stanton called me his secret wizard. And when I had done what Davis called "unbelievable computer programming wizardry voo-doo" that I guess created a windfall of money for him, he gave me a sweet deal.

Stanton and I could pass as twins. It was uncanny how much I looked like him. So my reward for the windfall? He gave me the keys to his high-class loft and to his bitchin' sports car, his credit cards, license and said, "Be me for a week. Do whatever you want, my man."

It was fun to play the part of Stanton Davis, even it was for only a few days. I gambled. I drank. Ate. Smoked. Popped pills. Just partied. It's amazing how much ass you can pound when you've got money. I know that sounds crude, but I had carte blanche.

It was about day five when I was back at his place, alone, sitting on his couch in nothing but a t-shirt, sweat pants and a pair of socks and a thought floated in my head, "I wonder if he's living my life right now?"

I laughed, because what the hell would he do with my life. All I really had was a social security number and a pre-paid cellular phone, and chances were he'd never discover where I had either of those things. I didn't even have a bank account or a credit card. Cash only transactions were the best for me.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door. I thought it might be Stanton wanting his life back a couple of days early. I opened the door without thinking. Then the world went black.

When I woke up, I couldn't see a thing and I didn't know where I was. I got up and bumped into a sink, a toilet and four walls that were impossibly close together. I kept screaming, "I'M NOT STANTON DAVIS!" But all I kept hearing was, "DON'T DENY WHO YOU ARE! REPENT FOR YOUR WRONGDOINGS! SUBMIT TO YOUR FAILURES!"

I screamed back, "BUT I'M NOT STANTON DAVIS!"

I crumbled. I pissed myself a couple of times. I couldn't sleep, but I was experiencing a nightmare that seemed to go on and on and on.

At some point, I got some food - a granola bar. I wished I was allergic to peanuts because if I ate the bar, I would die from a peanut allergy. Weird thought, right? But how can you think of a sane thought in such an insane situation?

So I ate the bar and then I sprawled across the floor and acted like I was dead. God, I was on the floor in that position for so long, I kind of drifted in this comatose state. I wasn't asleep but I didn't... couldn't move. Even when I felt like someone else was in the room, I didn't move. Even when a faint light seemed to dimly illuminate the room, I didn't move.

But I did flinch when I felt a thick spray move around my left arm. He had thought I was dead, and wasn't happy I was faking it. He pulled me off the floor in a rage and pushed me into the closest wall where I saw there was a door open to a hallway. He glared at me and the only words I could muster was, "I'm not Stanton Davis. I worked for him, but I'm not him."

In the dim light, he looked at me and took his hands off me. And I just bolted forward out of the room and into a dark hallway. I tripped on something and fell painfully on a bed of debris that littered the floor - nails, glass, metal fragments.

He grabbed me and dragged me across the floor back into the cell. "Never. NEVER you can escape me, Davis."

The dim light was gone. I was alone in the dark again. I screamed, "BUT I'M NOT STANTON DAVIS!"

I crumbled again. In that darkness, I started hearing voices. Not just his voice; other voices too. Scared the shit out of me. I was going crazy.

Time dripped, like a slow, agonizing drip of water from the faucet in the room. I had no idea how much time passed, but he finally did come back in the room. And without a word, he dragged me out of the room, through the debris-ridden hallway and into a painfully well-lit room. I cringed and closed my eyes tight. God the light hurt my head.

"Sit here and listen to this, you worthless piece of garbage." He sat me in front of a computer, and played a breaking news video from a local television news station. Through the pain, I heard bits and pieces of the report — Stanton Davis was being monitored by law enforcement for financial fraud; Stanton Davis had ties to the mob and rumored to be on a hit list; Stanton was found with a loaded weapon and silencer on his body that was never used; Stanton Davis was found dead in his apartment, single gunshot wound to the back of his head.

"I'm going to ask you this once, and you are going to be honest with me. Do you understand what I am saying to you?" Landry's voice scared me. It was full of malice and rage. "Explain to me what happened and who you are."

I told him everything. He was not impressed.

"You scheming piece of trash. Low-life scum bag! Because of YOU Stanton Davis will NEVER receive the retribution he deserved for his corrupted and malicious follies," Landry said, his voice laced with insanity. "And you. You! You lined that man's pockets with your work and then lived his perverted, morally chaotic lifestyle with absolute gusto, didn't you?"

I couldn't deny any of that. But I did. "I didn't know what I was writing code for. I just wrote it."

My excuses also did not impress Landry. The first time he slashed me with the knife, it ripped my shirt and my chest. I put my arms up and they were the recipients of the next four slashes. He stopped abruptly and I fell backward. For some reason he was laughing.

"Davis was on his way to kill you," Landry continued to laugh. "That's why he had a gun with a silencer."

He was probably right. Maybe Stanton thought the mob would kill me thinking it was him. And if I wasn't dead when he arrived, he would do it himself. It just seemed so fucked up.

Landry thought so too. "But instead, I end up taking you instead of Stanton." He bent down over me and grabbed my neck. "Don't think you deserve sympathy for this error. Do you think a bullet was enough retribution for Davis? Because it wasn't. It was YOUR mistake you got involved with Davis and it's YOUR mistake I am denied the ability to fulfill my mission! You're meaningless. You deserve nothing."

I thought he was going to stab me and finish me. But instead he dragged me to a garage and put me in the trunk of a car. He drove, and I banged the top of the trunk hood in a panic. When the car stopped, I became petrified not knowing where I was or what would happened.

Landry picked me up and threw me out like trash. "Stanton wanted to kill you, but I will not be the one to fulfill any mission of that scheming bastard," Landry said. "If you die here, it is destined to be. Pray the rain washes the stench of your inhumanity before you die in this desert."

After I was sure he drove off and was gone, I stood up and ran forward. I ran and ran, until my feet felt nothing underneath it. Then I tumbled until … I stopped.

When I stood up again, I thought I was dead because I should have been dead. But instead, I felt like a ghost, a hallucination. I was sore, bleeding, numb and I just stumbled around.

In my daze, I saw this shack, hidden under an overhanging of the ravine. I approached it and opened the door to see a man inside sitting against a wall upon a blanket strewn on the floor. Discarded alcohol bottles littered the floor and there was a rolling suitcase in the corner.

Even as bad as I smelled and felt, the odor in the air was putrid, and I noticed he wasn't moving. I stumbled toward him and saw his eyes wide open and trail of vomit down the side of his mouth. Between the stench in the room and the look of his skin, I figured he must have died a few days ago. I didn't want to touch him and search for a pulse.

Two prescription bottles laid just out of reach of his fingertips. There was about a half dozen pills left over in each bottle, and there was plenty of whiskey in the room. I considered mimicking this sad man's journey. It would have been so easy and I felt like I had no life left.

Then I saw his note. His suicide note spoke about his sadness, his loneliness, how invisible and insignificant he felt.

He didn't want his life anymore.

_Well,_ I thought, _I probably could use his life._

I folded the note and put it in my pocket. To avoid that stench in the shack, I took the sealed, rolling suitcase outside and opened it. In it were some clothes, including socks. That Grissom guy was right; I lost a piece of my socks on the branches I hit falling down that ravine. And it probably did have paint on it since I stepped in the spray Landry was trying to put around my arm.

Along with a pair of socks, I put on a shirt and pair of pants, remembering to put that folded note in the pocket of the fresh pair of pants. While I didn't find any shoes, I did find a wallet and a set of keys. The wallet didn't have any cash in it, but that was okay, because it did hold a bank card and a license with an address. That's all I needed. And the keys were gold - one looked like a house key and another was definitely a car key. The guy had to get here somehow. I needed to find that car.

But first I needed shoes. Taking the shoes off the dead guy was surreal, but nothing much made sense in the days before that moment. And things have been surreal ever since.

_"If I were to do this again, I would seek different people. Not those who are weak in moral fiber, but those who are strong, passionate, driven, and not by greed or lust, but by a sense of good. It is only from those people that you will ever find the answers of what makes a survivor a survivor."_

Six years later, I'm still alive. I sleep under a roof. I have cash. But I never seen myself as a survivor. I've been more than a scavenger, a parasite. The irony is that Landry probably saved my life, but I'm pretty sure it cost my sanity. I knew it cost my identity. I couldn't tell you who I really am because I've been so many different people in the past six years. Different looks, different accents, different backstories, different jobs, different resumes, different ids, different diplomas. Playing different people is not just a habit; it's an addiction.

One thing I do know is I do have a mission. I want to know could anyone have lived through what Landry did to his victims. I figured I was in there three days. Just three days. You might think you could do three days in the dark like nothing. Well, it didn't feel like nothing; it felt like a lifetime.

After much planning and research, set-up and reconnaissance is ready. I've never been able to settle on "the who," but I think I have. Like Landry said, someone of good moral fiber might truly tell me what makes a survivor a survivor. I looked into the backgrounds of those two investigators, and they both survived kidnapping. They were both obviously strong. He was in a box; he understands darkness. She was in the desert; she understands finding a way out.

In the end, I think it really has to do with timing. It has to be more than three days, and according to my ability to break into computers and find job schedules, I see one of them will be on vacation for a week.

I don't have a dogma of retribution. I just want to know am I truly a survivor or am I like a cockroach that Landry tried to kill but couldn't?

****I hope she can tell me.

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A/N: OK. Time to get to the nitty gritty. I do have the next chapter completed. When do you think I should post it? Send in a comment and/or review and let me know.


	19. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 18**

Sara opened the door to the house and just about dragged her tired body inside. In the last 72 hours she had worked roughly 60 hours - full shifts, half shifts. Or if she was going to be a positive-minded person, half-full shifts. That made her chuckle. _Or maybe I should say I worked a lot of "shits?" As in, "fuck the 'f.' Because working like this is fucking nuts."_

Where the hell did her mind go? God, she was exhausted.

She plopped down on the comfortable, heavenly-cushioned, large sofa in the living room. God, she loved this sofa. It is one of the first pieces of furniture she and Grissom picked out together after they got married. Grissom referred to it as their "matrimonial throne," especially when he would find Sara sitting on the couch with her legs stretched out. He would sit beside her, and leisurely stroke her legs. A feather-like touch, sensual and soothing. Her eyes would flutter closed as he continued to stroke, a balming heat emanating from the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands.

"Sara, did you know your name means 'princess'?" His voice soft, yet deep. Controlled, yet mischievous.

He knew she knew that. She was the one who told him, along with the fact that his name meant "bright promise." Yet, whenever he would say that phrase in that tone of voice while sitting with her on that sofa, she would answer, "Is that right? I had no idea."

Soon he would lean over her and whisper in her ear, "That's right. But, instead of treating you like a princess, shall I treat you like a queen on this throne?"

Oh the bright promises inspired from that question. Her answer to that question would always be, "yes," and his response always brought her to the apex of pleasure. Oh, what that man could do with his sensual mouth, with his meticulous fingers, with his firm...

Shit. Now she was exhausted and incredibly horny. Breaking out of her own daydream or mid-morning dream or whatever dream, Sara sat up straight on the sofa and rubbed her eyes. She stood up and walked to the kitchen to get some ice water. The clink of the ice cubes falling in her glass reminded her how quiet the house was. With a sigh, she turned her her head and out of the corner of her eye saw a red light blinking on the handset of her cordless phone.

She pushed the play button on the machine and returned the sofa, stretching out and cracking her neck. After the machine said, "One new message," Sara only had to wait a beat to hear the voice that is complemented those soothing hands she was just thinking about.

"Hi honey," his voice sounded somewhat upbeat, for the first time in a while. "I beginning to think that you would rather me talk to this machine than to you." He let out his unmistakable nervous laugh that always brought a smile to Sara's face. "I'm guessing you are still at work and I called too soon. I probably should have waited a little longer, but then I would have gotten the machine and thought I should have called a little sooner. If I call too late, you might be out taking a run. Unless it's too hot outside. I haven't checked the weather online lately. It's been so rainy here. I know it's probably not rainy over there. Never is too rainy in Vegas, is it? I'm rambling, aren't I?"

Sara nodded as she shut her eyes and listened as her husband seemingly rambled on. "Well, to get to the point, my dear, and I do have a reason for calling. It's not just to blatantly fill this message machine to the brim with a long-winded message to somehow coax the fates to allow me to talk to wife when I call instead of some infernal machine that mocks me with its clipped demeanor as it instructs me to leave a message after the tone. In this day and age, is there really anyone who doesn't know they should leave a message after the tone?"

Sara tried to keep her eyes open. "Gil, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Anyway," Grissom continued, not even knowing what his wife just asked, "I was calling because … just because I miss you and I thought calling you might give me some good luck because Amalia and I are going to make a final push for the textbook with the director and provost. I... we could use some good luck."

She wondered if the "we" he spoke about was Amalia and him or him and Sara.

Grissom's voice became softer and full of love, which relaxed Sara as she laid down on the sofa. "And it's just Amalia and me. No Sylvie Martin. This was Amalia's idea, but I think it is the right thing to do. We're going on the offense and up the ante. Even go all in. Kind of like a game of poker."

The urgency left Grissom's voice, and he started to just speak from the heart. "I... I don't know if I ever told you this, but … well, … you know before we got together how I used to play that back room poker game every once in awhile?"

Even now, Grissom would never say they were "dating." Instead he always regarded it as "getting together." Sara shifted in the sofa to get even more comfortable. She could definitely fall asleep, but fought the urge because she wanted to keep listening his voice.

"Well, I probably never told you that there were many times I would call you before going to the game just for luck. I wouldn't have any particular reason to call you, and I would just make things up." He chuckled again. "I remember one time I asked you if you accidently took home my favorite Cross pen. …"

_As Grissom's voice faded in the background, Sara recalled that phone call so many years ago. She was in the midst of a folding frenzy as she tried to go through four loads of recently-washed laundry. Her caller id showed Grissom was calling. "Hello, Supervisor Grissom."_

_She heard Grissom chuckle on the other end. "Supervisor Grissom? You know, Sara, that won't give you brownie points." He sounded pleasant._

_"Darn. I figured I would try," Sara said, trying to continue to fold laundry while cradling the phone on her neck. "Grissom, do you mind if I put you on speaker? I'm in the middle of doing chores."_

_"Of course," Grissom said, hearing the click of the speakerphone button on her end. "What are you doing? Cooking?"_

_"Nope. Folding my panties."_

_There was a silence on the other end. Sara had to hold in her laughter. "Supervisor Grissom, are you still there?"_

_"Yes," Grissom said. "You know, you could have said laundry."_

_"I'm trying to be more open with you."_

_"Well, I appreciate that," Grissom said, his tone letting Sara know he appreciated the bit of flirting._

_"Seriously, Grissom, did you need something? Nothing is wrong, is there?"_

_"Oh, no," Grissom replied. "I … um... I'm in my office and … I need to sign some papers."_

_"Oh. OK," Sara said. "You spell it G-R-I-S..."_

_Grissom laughed. "Thank you, Ms. Sidle. But I called because I was... I was wondering if you had taken my silver Cross pen home?"_

_"What?"_

_"It's my shiny, silver pen, as you've called it. I use it to sign things."_

_"Most people do that with pens."_

_"You incorrigible. Do you know that?"_

_Sara laughed. "I'm sorry. But you're giving me these easy opportunities."_

_She heard Grissom chuckle again, which made her heart skip a beat, but he soon continued. "Well, I can't find the pen. And since you tend to take pens off of people's desk..."_

_"I do not!" Sara said in a fake pout. "Who told you that?"_

_"I'm just going by the evidence, Ms. Sidle. There have been plenty of times I have watched you take a pen off my desk and then leave my office with said pen," Grissom replied. "Well, if you don't have it, where would it be, CSI Sidle?"_

_"Hmm... if I were to follow the evidence. I would think it probably is under the massive piles of paper on your desk," Sara said. "And I would guess it would be on the right-hand side, since you are a rightie."_

_"Interesting hypothesis." Unbeknownst to Sara, Grissom was twirling the Cross pen in his fingers as he spoke. "But which pile of papers on the right-hand side would you look through."_

_"Hmm... how about the side where you keep the crossword puzzle?" Sara said. "I always remember you twirling that pen in your fingers when you do the crossword."_

_"Sara?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"I found what I needed. Thank you."_

_She remembered how sincere he sounded when she said that. If she had known then what he was doing, she probably would have had a better reply._

_"Awesome, Griss. I'm going back to my panties." She was sure he heard her laugh as she hung up the phone before he could reply._

In her dreams, she would call him back and lure him to her apartment. She could just hear the urgency of him ringing her doorbell. He would come over under the pretense of helping her fold her laundry, but instead would take her in his arms and cover her body with his...

There's that damn doorbell again! Which caused Sara's eyes to shoot open. She had fallen asleep and someone was really ringing the doorbell.

"Just a second," she yelled as she got off the sofa and made her way to the door. When she opened it, she was practically blinded by the bright sun. _How long was I out?_ she thought.

"Sign here, ma'am."

She signed for the express letter and went back inside. It was close to 3 p.m., and she had been asleep for almost six hours. She ripped open the package and found a photo and a typed message, which read, "Hey, Sara. It's Fred Mandel from Hawthorne. Sorry I didn't get to email you the itinerary like I said I would, but things got out of whack here, which is why I figured I should just send it now. And, I'm also sending you a photo of someone who you will travel with. His name is Ramon Alvarez, and he's coming along for the ride, too. But don't worry, you're still my No. 1 candidate, beautiful."

Sara took a look at Ramon. He had nice-looking features, and Sara thought he looked a little familiar. Then again, in her job, she meets a lot of different people. Everybody looks like somebody.

She then looked at saw her flight was leaving about five hours earlier than expected, which meant she couldn't work that last night shift before she left. So it was good planning on her part that she signed up for a half swing shift now and the other half on her last day before the trip.

A big yawn disrupted her thought process. It surprised her she slept for so long on the couch. While she didn't mean to fall asleep during Grissom's message, listening to him drone on certainly was a good sleep aid. She might have to keep that message for future use.

The message. She remembered the point of the message was Grissom wanted to talk to her for good luck. Shit. She's several hours too late for that. Shit. She did it again.

But she had to cut herself some slack. She's been working overtime and then some to try and secure something that might make the long-distance part of the relationship a thing of the past. Then maybe he wouldn't have to leave her so many damn messages because they will actually be together. She had to get this grant secured, which is why she was willing to turn her world upside down to accommodate the itinerary change.

_Wait a second,_ she thought._ Did I tell Gil about the change? I must have, right? Or did I? Well, maybe I mentioned it, but I didn't have the updated itinerary yet. Did I mention it?_

That was the problem. Fred never sent her the itinerary. She was going to email Grissom the new itinerary after she received it. Between never receiving the promised email from Fred and getting everything done, passing the information to her husband who was halfway across the world slipped her mind. Besides, it was only a two-day difference.

Well, now that she had the itinerary, she would take it to work and email Grissom the details before she starts the shift. Otherwise, she'll simply forget.

Looking at the clock, she knew she needed to hustle to get to her shift on time. After starting her coffee pot in the kitchen, she jumped in the shower. She quickly did her hair and threw on some clothes. She went to the kitchen and put bread in the toaster before making her to-go coffee cup.

She just finished her toast and had an apple in her mouth before she grabbed her to-go mug of joe and her keys and dashed out the door. She remembered to lock the door before she left.

But she forgot to take the itinerary, which was still on the table with Ramon Alvarez's photo.

* * *

_tbc_

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A/N: More to come quite soon. Wheels are turning on this end. Review or comment. It is always appreciated. Many, many thanks for those who have reviewed. You all are the greatest.


	20. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 19**

"Well, Professeur, at least we tried."

Amalia sat across Grissom in his office following their meeting with the director of the board and the provost. For 20 minutes, Grissom made sound arguments, all of which were keenly translated by Amalia, just to make sure both the provost and director understood completely.

While the provost seemed engaged in the arguments, the director sat behind his desk, casually reclined in his very expensive office chair with a cheshire cat grin on his face. When Grissom asked if either of them had any questions, the director — Dr. Edouard Germaine, who Sylvie had spoken with the two evenings prior — dismissed everything and gave an ultimatum, in French. "Dr. Grissom, sign the contract for next term by tomorrow morning. Only then will we discuss the possibility of the text."

He then stood up and pointed to the door as if to say, "We are done here."

Back in Grissom's office, the duo sat quietly, not bothering with closing their desks for the day, even though most of the university's work day was complete.

"It's really a shame they wouldn't listen to our discussion points," Grissom said.

"They are missing out on a remarkable opportunity," Amalia said. "Your textbook concept is superb."

"And sexy," Grissom added. "They didn't even give us the time to show the sketches."

Amalia made a playful groan. "You and your sense of humor, Professeur. I will miss you."

Grissom smiled and opened his lower desk drawer, taking out a few items one at a time. "Well, you will have more than enough work for yourself come this time next year," said Grissom as he poured a liquid from a small carton in a glass for Amalia and another liquid from his familiar decanter in a glass for himself. "For you and your little one, madam?"

Amalia took the glass with a laugh. Before they left the office the day before, Amalia's husband, Denis, visited with Grissom. The two of them shared with the American their good news — Amalia was expecting another child. To celebrate Grissom and Denis had a shot of scotch together, with a promise of enjoying a cigar in the future.

"May I offer a toast," Grissom asked.

"A toast?" Amalia said. "Is it appropriate that I only have milk?"

"So true," Grissom said, as he procured a box of Nabisco graham crackers from his bottom drawer. "I seem to remember you enjoyed these with your milk."

Amalia looked genuinely touched at the gesture. "Oh, Professeur. I cannot believe you remember this. And the American brand that I love. Merci beaucoup." She stood up and went around his desk to kiss him softly on the cheek. "Je suis très touchée."

Amalia had been pregnant with Aloisio when she first worked with Grissom. He had brought in a lunch one day, which included graham crackers. Amalia had not eaten much that week due to morning sickness, and Grissom offered her a graham cracker. From that moment, she was hooked.

When Grissom went home last evening, he had found the unopened box of crackers that Sara had brought with her during one of her last trips. Although he liked graham crackers too, he figured Amalia would enjoy them even more.

Grissom raised his glass of amber liquid. "To you, Amalia. Your hard work helped make this project a reality. A toast to you and your growing family."

Amalia wiped away a small tear. "To work well done, Professeur. And to friendship"

"Yes. And to friendship," Grissom added, as he and Amalia clinked glasses.

Grissom swirled the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. He bent his head toward the glass out of years of habit and sniffed the aged Scottish whiskey. While the usual woody aroma seemed less faint, when he took a deep swig he felt a more intoxicating effect of the liquid.

The strong alcohol burn made Grissom flinch slightly. But his face changed to a smile as he watched Amalia. She had taken a small sip after the toast, and then immediately opened the box of crackers. She broke off the rectangular cracker of goodness into its four parts and dunked a piece into her milk.

Grissom absentmindedly finished his drink and, again, flinched. "This must not have been capped properly the last time I drank from the bottle," he said under his breath.

"I'm sorry, Professeur?" Amalia said. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," he said as he shook his head.

Amalia passed the box to him. "You haven't eaten today. Would you like one?"

"Non merci," Grissom said. "They don't complement my drink and I wouldn't dream of taking them away from you."

Amalia got up and balanced the box of cookies, the small carton of milk and her glass in her arms.

"Do you need help?"

"I am a 21st century working mother," Amalia said. "I excel at … what is that word you Americans use?"

"Multitasking?"

"Oui. I knew it was tasking or tsking."

"I'm sure you're good at tsking, too."

Amalia knew by the look on his face that he was teasing her. "I'm going to google that word, Professeur."

She turned to leave and almost bumped into someone in Grissom's doorway. "Oh! Mademoiselle!"

"Amalia, you must be more careful," said Sylvie Martin, slinked into the office without a sound. She immediately made her way around Amalia and to the edge of Grissom's desk where she demurely leaned against it. Pointing to the decanter, she said, "I must be just on time for celebrations, oui?" The she turned to Amalia and said, "Were you not going to put those items on your desk?"

Amalia plastered a smile for Sylvie, but before exiting she said softly, "Thank you once again, Professeur."

"Tout le plaisir est pour moi," The pleasure was all mine, Grissom replied equally as soft. As Amalia left, he turned his attention to Sylvie. "Mademoiselle Martin, did you need to ask me something?"

Sylvie moved behind Grissom and put her hands on his shoulders. "Ask you? Oh, Gil, I came to celebrate the good news." She then bent down to open his desk drawer, revealing her cleavage as she did. "I didn't know that you had made an appointment with Edouard and the provost." Sylvie put a glass tumbler she found in the drawer on top of his desk. "I told you I was speaking with him. Did you not trust me?"

"It is my proposal, mademoiselle," Grissom said as he closed his desk drawer. "I believed I deserved to sit down with Dr. Germaine and discuss the matter."

Sylvie poured a shot of Grissom's scotch into her tumbler. "Well, I told you not be pushy, but you are a stubborn man. But to know that all you have to do is sign a contract in the morning and he will consider the proposal is such good news."

"I'm afraid I don't agree with you, mademoiselle." Grissom watched as Sylvie went to pour liquor in his own glass, so he put his hand above it. "Non merci."

"Do not be silly," Sylvie said, pushing aside his hand and pouring much more than a shot into his glass. "I insist."

"I have already had a drink and, I don't believe you will enjoy the taste of this liquor."

"Gil," Sylvie said seductively, "I am a woman who is able to hold her own with manly tastes."

Grissom snickered. _Such an odd statement._ he thought. _Her double entendres need help._ "That might be true, but I don't think..."

Sylvie leaned dangerously close to Grissom. "I'm not leaving until you finish a drink with me. I'm not a woman who begs, and with all the help I have offered, isn't it the least you could do?"

Grissom sighed and took his tumbler. "One drink, and then you will allow me to finish my day?"

"But of course, dear Gil," Sylvie said before she lifted her glass for the toast. "To …" she gazed up at the ceiling and then found Grissom's face once more, "possibilities."

They clinked glasses. Knowing it wouldn't taste good, Grissom downed the drink in one gulp, regretting it instantly. He let out a few coughs, leading Sylvie to put down her glass on the far end of his desk, behind a framed photo, and rub his back.

Grissom rolled his chair away from her. "I'm fine, thank you."

Sylvie stood straight and smoothed down her dress, before purring, "Au revoir, Gil."

"Goodbye Ms. Martin."

"Mademoiselle," Sylvie corrected.

"Whatever," Grissom said flippantly. Not bothering to watch Sylvie as she left, he put on his glasses and kept his attention on some papers on his desk.

Sylvie simply chuckled as she left the office.

Grissom didn't notice Sylvie leaving. He felt a little woozy as he sat in his chair. He lifted his head up and saw the photo of Sara he had on his desk. He picked up the photo and stared at it. He tried to draw up a special memory that would satisfy the longing he felt, but his mind felt clouded. Instead he thought, _God, I wish I could see her. When will I see her again? I miss her so much._

After staring at the photo for a while, he pushed his seat back from his desk dramatically. He giggled because he went a lot faster than he thought. He scooted his chair forward again and did it again. He did it two more times and thought, _My own private roller coaster._

Then he got up. Grissom staggered a bit, but moved forward and balanced his hands on the desk. He let out a couple of deep breaths, and opened and closed his eyes. His gaze found its way back to Sara's picture. Grissom picked it up again with a smile, and then went to sit down.

But the chair was still pushed away from the desk. Grissom fell down hard, making a sound that lead Amalia to enter the office. "Professeur?! What happened?"

"What does it look like?" Grissom said in frustration. "I fell on my big, old ass."

With a look of confusion and concern, Amalia went to Grissom's side and helped him up. But he wasn't keen on letting her attend to him. "I'm fine. I can get up myself."

Grissom's demeanor served to disturb Amalia more than upset her. "Did you hurt yourself? You seem unwell."

When he stood up straight, he shifted a bit. "I just need to sit down."

Before he would do the same thing twice, Amalia pushed his office chair toward his desk. "Now you might sit."

Grissom fell into his with a plop. "Don't start eyeballing me," Grissom said gruffly. "I'm fine."

"Eyeballing you?" Amalia asked, surprised at his tone. "Professeur, I was not staring at you. Would you like some water?"

Grissom groaned and picked up Sara's photo again. "Do you know I haven't seen my wife in over a month? I see you .. I even see that damn Sylvie Martin more often than my wife."

Amalia sighed. "Oui, Professeur, and I know it has been difficult for you."

"You have no idea," he said under his breath. "I've been wasting my time here. I thought she would like it here, but … Why did I do this to us?"

It seemed that Grissom wasn't speaking to Amalia, but speaking out loud. That was something she had never witnessed him doing. "Professeur, I think you should go home and rest. You are not well."

"I told you, I'm fine," Grissom said, his voice clipped and shaky.

"I will drive you home, Professeur."

"No, you won't."

"It is not a bother. We can leave now"

"No, we won't," Grissom said, tersely. "You cannot drive me home. Do you understand?!"

Amalia's temper began to rise. "Professeur. I am trying to be patient. I can drive you to your appartement and you can rest..."

"Where is your car?" Grissom interrupted rudely and loudly. The statement silenced Amalia who realized it was the day of the week that her husband, Denis, took the car for meetings across town.

As Amalia fumed quietly, Grissom chuckled. "I'm right, aren't I?" His tone turned sing-songy. "You don't have a car! You don't have a car!" Then he began to laugh.

"Are you finished, Professeur?" Amalia said, her patience at a breaking point.

Grissom stopped laughing and shook his head. His demeanor took a 180-degree turn. "I... ummm... Je su... I ... apologize. Please, uh... You should be with … your husband ... and Al... your... son. Enjoy them."

Amalia's face screwed up. There was definitely something wrong with her boss. "Professeur, perhaps I could call you a taxi?"

"I'll get one...," Grissom stopped speaking and gestured to the window.

"Outside?" Amalia asked to complete his sentence.

But Grissom ignored her comment. He stood up and picked up papers, only to drop them haphazardly. He struggled to figure out what he should do next. Amalia opened his upper right hand drawer and retrieved his wallet, keys and phone. "Go home, Professeur. I will call you later to see how you are feeling."

Grissom looked at Amalia. His eyes seemed fogged, like they couldn't focus or didn't know what they were focusing upon. But he didn't say anything. He simply took his things and left.

After he walked away, Amalia went to her phone and called downstairs to security. When a familiar person answered the call, she spoke in French. "Professor Grissom is on his way downstairs. Please make sure he gets into a taxi safely."

"Oui, Amalia," the security guard responded in French. "I will call for one now."

* * *

_Thank God I got the cab right away,_ Grissom thought to himself as he entered the backseat of a taxi. He was having a hard time focusing and started fidgeting in the car. He couldn't explain his unease, but he could definitely feel it. He leaned back and closed his eyes hoping he would be home soon.

His phone beeped with a text message. He opened his eyes and scrolled to see the text. When he saw the name of the sender, a broad grin spread on his face.

"Where R U?" read the text from Sara Cell.

Grissom stared at his phone incredulously. "In a French cab," he said out loud, which lead him to laugh and then text what he said.

In no time, his phone beeped again to alert of another message. "On way home?"

It amazed him how a message could travel from one side of the globe to another in such a short time. "yes where r ur?"

Grissom leaned back in his seat as his head filled with images of Sara. His phone beeped again.

"Home."

Grissom smiled. Then another message popped up from Sara Cell, which read, "But not in Vegas."

Grissom sat up straight. _Home, but not in Vegas?_ he thought. He immediately started typing, not bothering to fix any mistakes. "in thre apartmen?"

Soon a text from Sara came again. This time a smiley face, followed by the words, "I found that blue dress. Wearing it now."

Grissom, dumbfounded that his wife was in Paris, luxuriated in the image of his beautiful wife in that dress. The way the neckline of the dress dipped into her bosom. The revealing, sexy look of her long legs from the thigh-high slit. How he longed to guide his hand up her body through that slit.

His phone buzzed with another message. "Now I took the dress off."

Grissom could feel himself become hard. He leaned forward in his seat and tapped the driver's shoulders. He needed to get home NOW, but struggled to find the proper words in French. "S'il vous plaît … faster."

"Pardon?"

"Rapide!" Grissom said as he waved some money.

The cab sped faster to Grissom's apartment, arriving in less than two minutes. Grissom paid the cabbie, and then some, and stumbled out of the cab, tripping and falling on his knees. He picked himself up and shot up the steps, arriving at his doorstep. He fumbled for his keys, before he realized the door was already open.

He stepped inside the doorway. The apartment had all the shades closed and every light off. Because the sun was going down outside, there were no beams of light that could spy into the apartment. In total darkness, Grissom said in a hushed voice, "Sara?"

Before he could turn on a light, a woman filled his arms. He held onto her and felt the smooth skin of her naked body. Her scent — crisp, delicious, and an oh-so-familiar blend of ginger and orange — awakened his senses.

"Sara," he moaned as she kissed him passionately. Possessed by the moment, Grissom tangled his tongue with his wife's, as he wound his fingers in her hair. She pulled away from him and without a word untucked his shirt, undid his belt and plunged her hand inside his pants, taking hold of him.

"Oh God," he moaned as she stroked him over and over. He dipped his head into her shoulder and nipped at her throat and earlobe, which tasted of the essential oils she loved to wear when they were alone. "Oh honey," he whispered in her ear. She stroked him with more urgency.

Fully aroused and eager to be unleashed, Grissom fought the urge to take her at that very moment. He didn't want this to be like last time — passionate, fast, but empty at the end. This was a gift. He didn't want to devour her. He wished to caress her. Entice her. Love her and savor her.

He pulled her hand off of him and then settled his hands upon her ass. But she turned around, grabbed his arm and pulled him into the darkened bedroom. Once again, she attacked him with urgency, halting his efforts to turn on a light.

Grissom gave up trying to fight and stroked her skin, beginning with her ass, and then moving to her mound. Although she responded positively to his hand upon her apex, it surprised Grissom that she was shaven. _That doesn't seem right,_ a part of his unconscious voiced. _She was teasing she might do that someday, but I never thought she would._ While he paused for a moment, it was difficult to silence the passion of his manhood, especially after she began to place one hand again upon it, and used the other one to undo his button-down shirt.

He began to open the folds of her flesh and enter a finger inside her. Hot and wet, Grissom still felt uneasy. _Something is doesn't feel right,_ he thought to himself.

The cloud and haze of his mind tried to justify him moving forward. _You are rushing too much. Yes, that has to be it._ Retreating from her center, he moved both hands to her hips and slowly made his way up her curves. He placed his hand below her breasts.

His hands had traced the map of her bosom so often he could envision it in his dreams. The size and shape of her nipples. The weight of her breasts in his palm. The way he could place three fingers within her cleavage as she laid down.

And their taste. She never placed a scent upon her breasts, so when he suckled them, it was only the sweet taste of Sara's skin.

But as Grissom traced his hands upon her, the landscape under the pads of fingers felt foreign. _This isn't right._ But his hazy mind pushed him forward. Grissom cradled her breasts._ No. Stop it!_ Grissom could feel her moving her hands up and down his chest and then into the waistband of his pants releasing him. _This isn't right! Stop!_ He dipped his head down as he moaned. _Stop right now!_ He inhaled her scent. _You need to stop this!_ He tried to move forward, but now his conscious mind seemed to break through the fog. _Stop this now!_ He pushed back from her to try and see her face.

_STOP IT! STOP IT!_

Grissom insistently grabbed her hands so she would release him. She seemed to think of it as a game and fell upon the bed trying to bring him on top of her.

_STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP NOW!_

But he didn't fall on the bed. Instead he turned on the light on the nightstand. Immediately, Grissom felt ill. "Oh my God! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

As Grissom buttoned up both his pants and his shirt, he stared incredulously at the woman in his bed. "How did you?..." Grissom could barely focus, his head was spinning and he felt nauseous and ashamed.

Sylvie Martin, still naked and not trying to hide it, sprawled herself on the bed. "Gil, there is no need to be angry. This is what you want."

"WHAT I WANT?!" Grissom held his head in his hands as he screamed at Sylvie. "YOU BROKE INTO MY HOUSE AND MADE ME BELIEVE YOU WERE MY WIFE!"

Sylvie crawled on the bed toward Grissom. "Do not act like you did not enjoy this."

Grissom shook his head vigorously. "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you to get the hell out of here." Grissom paced around the room and picked up Sylvie's strewn clothes. "Put on your clothes and get the hell out of my apartment."

Sylvie stood up and pressed her body against Grissom. "You are a foolish man." As Grissom took a step backward, Sylvie continued to take a step toward him. "I am your only hope if you EVER want the Sorbonne to consider your project. I am the only who can push it forward or destroy it, Gil."

"Don't call me that," Grissom said, as he threw the clothes he found on the bed. "I don't give a shit what you think you can do to me. Just get the hell away from me."

"Such language."

"I restrained myself from using certain words to describe you," Grissom said. "My language could be much worse."

No longer did Sylvie have a devilish smile or an air of confidence. Her demeanor was full of malice. "How dare you. I offer you the world, and you insult me? No man dares to insult me. And no man rejects me."

"If you don't leave now, I will call the police."

Sylvie crossed her arms around her chest. "You would not dare."

Grissom stumbled as he suffered a wave of wooziness and nausea.

"Oh, what is the matter, Gil?" Sylvie asked, putting particular emphasis on his first name. "Do you not feel well, Gil?"

This time, Grissom gave her a scathing look. He fought the urge to run to the bathroom, and picked up the cordless phone on the nightstand. He pushed a button to dial a number. "What did you put in my drink?" Grissom asked as he waited for an answer to his call.

Sylvie laughed. "Would you truly have me to believe you have the local police on speed dial?"

"I worked in law enforcement for more than 20 years," Grissom said. "Do you really think I wouldn't have the local police on speed dial?"

Sylvie gave him a look of absolute contempt. "Liar."

There was an answer to his call. "Allo? La police? Une femme … est entrée …. par effraction … chez moi." In broken French he told the police how a woman broke into his house.

Sylvie grabbed her clothes off the bed and started to put them on. "Salop! BASTARD!"

Grissom put the phone at his side. He followed Sylvie out the door and out of the building because he needed to make sure she left his apartment.

At the doorway, Sylvie turned to Grissom. "You are a fool. This is not the end of this matter!"

"Goodbye, Ms. Martin." Grissom replied.

* * *

"Amalia," Denis asked his wife. ""Qu'est-ce-que Grissom vous a dit?"

He knew that Amalia had gotten a call on her cell phone and wanted to know what he said. His wife sat in the front seat of their car as Denis drove. She told him the single sentence Grissom said to her as he acted like he was talking to the police.

"It has to be about her," Amalia said. "I know it."

She and Denis were on their way to Grissom's apartment after Denis came to pick her up from the office. When he arrived, she was still in shock and visibly upset about the way Grissom was acting.

"What happened? Was he rude to you?" Denis asked. "Il vous a insulté?"

"No, he did not insult me," Amalia replied. "He did not seem himself. Before he left, he looked at me as if he had forgotten my name."

Amalia recalled to her husband the sweet gesture Grissom offered her, and then how his demeanor immediately changed after Sylvie left his office. She and Denis went into Grissom's office as she told him about the toast they shared.

Denis found the tumbler Sylvie had left behind a photo frame on the desk. He smelled the contents, but could not find a different odor.

"It is his scotch," Amalia said, taking the decanter from his drawer. "It is the same scotch you shared with him yesterday."

Denis smelled the liquor, poured a small portion in an empty glass and sipped it, only to spit it out back in the glass. "This is not the scotch he and I drank yesterday."

"Does it taste different?" Amalia asked.

"Stronger," Denis said. "Much stronger. Like it contains absinthe, but it does not taste like that. It is possible it might contain Everclear."

"What is Everclear?"

"190 proof liquor."

"Merde," Knowing that Grissom had two glasses of the alcohol explained his bizarre behavior. The alcohol content lead to increased toxication. "I cannot believe they would sell this."

"It is not legal in France, but it is in Italy," Denis said. "How much did he drink?"

"Too much," said Amalia, who suspected Sylvie — who recently visited Italy for a week — spiked Grissom's drink. "Denis, est-ce-qu'on peut passer chez le professeur pour voir si tout va bien?"

Denis had no problem with his wife's request to pass by Grissom's apartment to see if he was doing OK. He knew what Sylvie was capable of doing. But before he did, he told his wife to take the decanter and the glasses and put them someplace else. He wanted someone to take a look at the contents tomorrow.

As the two of them drove from Sorbonne to Grissom's residence, Amalia received that strange call from her boss asking for the police. She did not know it, but Grissom simply pushed the redial button on his phone instead of speed dial number, as he tried to make Sylvie believe. The last call he made was to Amalia earlier that morning.

Amalia had called Grissom back, but got no reply. Fortunately, she and Denis were a short distance from his apartment. When they first started working together, Grissom had given Amalia a spare key to his apartment to care for Hank while he was away. She used that key to enter his building, but she paused before using it at his front door. Instead, she knocked and called his name loudly. "Professeur? Are you in?"

She put her ear to the door, but heard nothing. She unlocked the door, and she and Denis ventured inside. At that point, they could definitely hear something — someone retching in the bathroom.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: This chapter was made possible due to the assistance of Sylvie (the real one who is nice, not Sylvie Martin) and GSR Dame Chauncey. Thank you ladies. Merci beaucoup. Now that Sylvie has had her hands on Grissom, I'm guessing Chauncey will too. :-)

It was a long chapter. I hope you enjoyed. Comments, reviews, remarks, hate mail are gladly accepted.


	21. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI. (Author note at the bottom)

* * *

**CHAPTER 20**

Denis stepped directly in front of his wife, knowing she would go into the bathroom. "Allow him some privacy," he said to her softly in French. When he heard a pause in the retching, Denis came within a few feet from the bathroom and yelled, "Grissom? It is Denis Chauncey. Do you need a doctor?"

Then came the sound of retching again, and the toilet flushed. The Chauncey's could hear water running from the faucet. A few seconds elapsed, then a visibly-shaken Grissom stepped into the doorway of the bathroom. Denis stepped forward to catch a hold of Grissom's arm to help steady him, but the older man waved him off and slowly made his way to the edge of the bed. Grissom sat down gingerly on the corner of the bed.

An uncomfortable silence rippled through the room. Grissom couldn't look at either Denis nor Amalia and put his head in his hands. No one spoke, but after a while Grissom could hear someone move closer to him. He lifted up his head to see Amalia standing over him with a wastebasket.

"In case you do not make it back to the toilet," she said compassionately.

Grissom took the basket with a nod of thanks. Amalia leaned against the edge of Grissom's nightstand. She could tell it was his side of the bed because of the various pairs of reading glasses spread haphazardly and the numerous yellow sticky notes filled with his chicken scratch. She saw the other nightstand was neat and held one book with a mark sticking out at an odd angle. "We are only here because we were worried about you. You did not seem well. And then we got the call from you about the police."

"You were the one I dialed?" Grissom asked. He didn't even think who would get the call when he pushed speed dial. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"That should not be a concern of yours. What happened to you, Professeur?" Amalia said. Her voice was firm but not without concern. "I know this has something to do with Sylvie Martin. Please tell me, so you can move forward."

His head pounding and the regretful actions of the last hour still reeling in his conscious, Grissom took a deep breath. "What happened? I'm an idiot. A goddamned idiot."

Grissom felt a wave of nausea and placed the wastebasket under his chin in case he needed to vomit. When he gained some control of his faculties, he put the bucket down and with shaky hands, he retrieved his phone from his pocket. "In the taxi, I got text messages. I thought there were from Sara. I can't believe how stupid that I was to think that. Should have been more careful and known better."

At that point, Denis stood next to him. "You thought the texts were from your wife?" Grissom nodded. "Grissom? May I see them?"

Grissom nodded his head and gave him the phone. Then he quickly stood up and stumbled to the bathroom. Amalia went to the kitchen, took a dish towel and soaked it in cold water. She took it and a glass of tap water to the bathroom. Grissom had finished with his additional nauseous spell and sat down against the toilet, with his head in his hands. Amalia knelt down next to him and put the towel on his head. "Better?" She asked.

"Oui. Merci."

"Do you want water?"

"I don't think I can."

Denis came into the doorway. "Did Sylvie Martin ever have access to your phone before you received these messages?"

"Access?" Grissom head continued to pound. Then he recalled the night at the cafe when his phone fell out of his pocket into her scheming hands. "I misplaced it during a meeting with her. She found it. Had it for a couple of hours."

Denis nodded his head. "She put her number in your cellular phone book under the name, 'Sara Cell.' I am guessing your wife's contact was deleted. So when Martin texted you, it looked like a message from your wife."

"Bardajona," Amalia said scathingly, referring to the woman as a bitch.

"Oui," Denis concurred.

Grissom began to recall the previous night. Although his brain felt a little fuzzy as he tried to process what had happened with Sylvie and connect it with his innate sense of right and wrong. He stood up and opened his medicine cabinet. He searched for something and came up empty-handed. "I can't believe it," he said despondently. "I can't believe she did that."

"What is it, Professeur?" Amalia asked.

"Sara's essential oils. Her parfum. It's not here. Sylvie used it so that she would smell like Sara. And she talked about the blue dress in the text. I talked about both those things with Laurent in the cafe a few nights ago," Grissom said, stringing together thoughts that didn't make sense to the couple. "And the spare key. I had it on the hook with Hank's leash. She must have took it. Jesus. Why would she do this?"

Between his emotional state and his physical state, Amalia knew he should sit down.

"Perhaps we should take you to the doctor?" Amalia asked as she helped him out of the bathroom. "There is no telling what Mademoiselle Martin put in your drink."

"She wouldn't say if she did," Grissom said, as he again sat on the same corner of his bed.

"I have no doubt she did," Denis said. "I sampled the liquor, Grissom. It was not the same as yesterday. It had been compromised to make you more vulnerable to intoxication."

"She wouldn't leave till I finished another drink with her," Grissom said, berating himself under his breath. "I just wanted her out of my office."

"Grissom, Sylvie Martin conducted many offenses against you - theft, breaking into your apartment, and it is possible she put your life in danger from alcohol poisoning," Denis said. "The provost must know about their violations made against you."

Grissom shook his head. "No, Denis."

"We cannot allow these actions to happen without consequences," Denis said. "She cannot be allowed to play these... I do not even know how to say it, but... games and get away with it."

"This isn't a game, Denis," Grissom said solemnly. "And she will just turn everything around. I'm sure she's thought of what she would say against accusations ... but it doesn't matter. This is my fault."

Amalia took a serious look at her boss, then turned to her husband. "Denis. Eu quero falar com ele." Amalia normally didn't speak in Portuguese in front of someone who doesn't understand the language, but she found it necessary to secure a moment alone to talk with Grissom.

Denis understood his wife and nodded his head at her. "Grissom, I ask you to please think about these concerns, s'il vous plait." Grissom looked up and met Denis' eyes. "Also, I believe it is best these messages are saved, backed-up on in another location. Would you mind if I did that for you?"

"Whatever you think is best, Denis," Grissom conceded.

"I will be in the kitchen," Denis said, leaving the bedroom area.

Grissom head was slumped down, one hand over his mouth and chin. He sat sadly reflecting what happened. Amalia stayed quiet, hoping he might say something. But he did not.

Amalia took a deep breath. She knew how violated he would feel if she asked a question, but he needed to talk about it or it would eat him up inside. She waited one more moment in the silence, and then spoke.

"How far did it escalate?"

"Far enough."

"But not as far as she wanted?"

Grissom took a deep breath. "No. Not that far."

"That is good."

A sad sigh escaped Grissom. "It shouldn't have gotten as far as it did."

"Oui," Amalia agreed, approaching the bed and gesturing to Grissom to scoot over. "You do understand you were not yourself when you left the Sorbonne."

Grissom held back a sob and put his tired, shaky hand over his face. His shame made it impossible to look at the young woman, but his tone was full of remorse. "Amalia, I was rude to you. I truly am sorry. I hope you can forgive me." Amalia responded with a friendly hand on his back. As she rubbed his back he continued to speak. "I was so out of control. When I got here, the lights were off, she... that Martin woman, she smelled like my Sara, she smelled like home. It took so long for my mind to escape this fog so I could realize it wasn't Sara. God, I've ruined us. How could I have done that to Sara?"

"Professeur. I suspect things could have progressed much, much farther. But you realized it wasn't Sara before it was too late," Amalia insisted. "You cannot forget that."

Amalia continued to rub Grissom's back, but noticed he was fighting against the nausea again and she quickly and grabbed the wastebasket for him. He immediately vomited. While she had concern for Grissom, Amalia felt so much anger against Sylvie Martin. She knew the woman had played men before, but her tactics with Grissom have gone well what she had ever done before. And Amalia feared Sylvie might not be done with Grissom.

"Professeur, did she believe you called the police?"

"Yes. She was...," Grissom paused and smiled softly, "very upset with me when I told her to leave. She yelled, 'No man dares reject me.'"

While she was glad Grissom felt that moment as a victory, Amalia couldn't help think the nasty response Sylvie might give to that affront to her advances.

"Professeur, do you think you can drink something now?"

"I don't know..."

Amalia decided to clean the rather smelly and soiled trash can in the bathroom. "I will be back."

Grissom nodded his thanks to his assistant and as he sat, with his gaze transfixed on nothing in particular, he could hear as she emptied the container, then very thoroughly cleaned and disinfected it.

She came out of the bathroom with a very serious look upon her face. "If you will not see a doctor, I must insist you come home to with Denis and me," Amalia said, immediately expecting the look Grissom gave her. "There is no alternative for you. I suggest you take a shower here, where you are comfortable, and if you are sick, Denis can help you. Afterward, we can all leave for Maison Chauncey."

"Amalia, you should just go home and be with your family..."

"Did you not hear me?" Amalia said tersely. She did not enjoy talking to Grissom in this manner, but she knew he needed a firm hand. "There is no alternative, Professeur. Comprend?"

Grissom stood up without word, but with a long sigh went to the bathroom and closed the door. He undressed and caught his reflection in the mirror. If he'd had the strength he would have punched his own image, but instead he turned around in disgust and entered the shower.

Climbing into the shower without testing the water, the cold temperature temporarily shocked Grissom. But he kept the temperature cold as a punishment, and scrubbed his skin hard with his wife's loofah sponge. He knew there was no way to remove the filth he felt, but he needed to do something to try and erase those horrible minutes he'd spent nearly loving the wrong woman.

Minutes. That's all it was. Maybe five minutes, and he had now put an ugly mark upon his marriage. His marriage was something he treasured more than he ever believed possible.

He thought again of those few minutes and nausea reared its ugly head again. But instead of stopping, Grissom began to scrub himself harder. He nearly rubbed his penis raw, knowing the woman had used her hand there. He scoured his chest knowing she had her hands all over him. He washed his hair three times, because he knew her fingers curled themselves in his short locks.

Finally he felt he could cleanse himself against her violations no more. Physically spent, he turned the water to a warmer temperature and leaned against the tiled-shower wall. What had made him so vulnerable? He couldn't blame everything on what he had drank. No. There had to be more. He truly, truly believed Sara had sent those texts. That she was in the apartment. What would make him possibly throw all logic out the window for a situation that was more based in a fairy tale than in reality?

Something truly had broken in his marriage. Now, he had to figure out a way to fix this.

* * *

After hearing his wife banish Grissom to the bathroom, Denis reentered the bedroom to find Amalia removing the sheets off of Grissom's bed.

"I thought I heard you say he must come home with us," Denis said in French to his wife. "Why are you doing that?"

Amalia threw the dirty sheets and comforter in a pile on the floor, and searched in a closet for new sheets. "He is coming with us, but when he comes back here, there should be few reminders of this ... catastrophe." Amalia came back to the bed with new sheets, which Denis took from her and immediately started dressing the stripped bed.

"It will take more than new sheets, my dear."

"That is true," Amalia agreed, as she looked in a chest for a new comforter. When she didn't find one, she went with a blanket. "I am so angry about all this. With him, and so much with her." She gestured to her husband to pick the sheets off the floor. "Take these to the car. I will wash them tonight."

Denis picked up the sheets and made his way to the door. Amalia followed him and closed the bedroom door behind her. While she went to sit on the sofa, Denis retrieved his keys but stopped before exiting. "Where will Grissom sleep?"

"Aloisio will have a roommate tonight," Amalia replied. "Which might be good for him. Aloi might be the only person who would not judge the Professeur's actions."

* * *

Grissom peeked out the bathroom door to see if anyone was in his room. Seeing the room empty and door closed, he stepped out of his bathroom with a towel around his waist and another around his neck.

He went to this closet and retrieved an overnight bag. Throwing it upon his bed, he noticed the blanket that replaced the comforter. He spied under it to see the new sheets. He knew Amalia must have removed the previous set of sheets. A wave of embarrassment and shame overcame him. He sat on the bed and this time allowed himself to silently sob.

But he only allowed himself a moment of grief. He banged his fist on the bed. He rose quickly and filled his bag. "I can't believe I was so foolish." He grabbed a pair of socks and underwear. "You were an investigator, for God's sake. You couldn't figure out what was happening?" He threw in a pair of pants and shirt. "And staying here without Sara? For what? The integrity of a book written by a goddamned, old fool."

Grissom zipped up the bag and quickly dressed. He tossed the towels back in the bathroom and strode out of the room. When he opened the door he saw Denis and Amalia quickly end a hushed conversation and look at him.

Denis approached him with a smile and took his overnight bag. "I'll be downstairs with the car."

Amalia watched her husband leave then watched as Grissom gather his briefcase. "You are ready, Professeur?"

"Amalia, have you eaten? I might have something here..."

Amalia shook her head at the absurd question. "I will eat later, at home. I think it is best if I go home."

Grissom nodded his head and Amalia turned her back to him and headed for the door.

"I need to go home, too.

Amalia turned around to see Grissom rooted in his spot. Although his skin was pale, his resolve seemed strong. "Professeur, I'm sure in a few days..."

"No," Grissom interrupted. "Tomorrow. I need to leave tomorrow. I need to go back to Las Vegas. To Sara."

"Professeur, it is already late..."

He interrupted again and took a step toward Amalia. "I know you are upset with me, and I don't deserve to ask of you a favor, but could you please help me get in touch with Rene? Maybe he could help me secure a flight back to the states?"

It was true that Rene could be of a big help. As an executive of the Directorate General for Civil Aviation, or DGAC, Rene could be a big help in getting Grissom on a flight overseas. But Amalia agreed with her husband that Grissom had to report Sylvie Martin's abuses to the provost.

Grissom took another step closer. "Please, Amalia. I need to get back with my wife."

After hearing the quiet urgency of his voice, Amalia could feel her firm hand slipping. She wanted to be no-nonsense, tough-as-nails with Grissom, but she empathized with the man. He just fought with someone using underhanded tactics, and he wanted to save his marriage despite losing dignity. And dammit if that didn't cause her to tear up. "Merde," she mumbled under her breath. "Hormones."

Grissom smiled, which broke Amalia's resolve. Her boss screwed up, but he didn't need to be in France fighting off Sylvie Martin. He needed to be with Sara. "Oui. You are doing this for Sara, so we will try."

"Merci," Grissom said softly, as he opened the door for Amalia and closed it behind him.

* * *

Gilbert Grissom forced his eyes open. He had been nodding off for the past few minutes even though he sat on a hard, uncomfortable plastic chair. He was currently at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport on the last leg of his journey home to Las Vegas. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do when he got home, or how he could tell Sara what had happened to him. He wondered if she would allow him to go to Central America with her or if they just needed to stay at home in Las Vegas, together.

He silently thanked Amalia for her hard work in securing a flight back to the United States. His journey had included criss-crossing Europe on several short flights, then from London's Heathrow Airport, he had flown to JFK in New York. He trudged quickly through customs with two carry-on bags, then he was pinballed from JFK to Reagan International in Washington, D.C., to O'Hare in Chicago. Now he waited out the two-hour layover for his flight to Vegas.

Amalia's only request was that Grissom contact her by phone or email to let her knew he arrived safely. Grissom hope he wouldn't forget to do that. He was exhausted, but as he forced his eyes open again, he looked around the crowded terminal.

With his bags at his feet, Grissom stood up and stretched as he glanced around. To his left, he saw a young family - a couple in their early 30s with two kids, no more than 7 or 8. The kids had their own carry-on bags, one with Disney princesses and the other with fishy cast of Finding Nemo. He wondered if they were on their way to Orlando for a vacation to the Magic Kingdom.

To his right he spied a group of teens and some businessmen. Each group was dressed dramatically differently from the other. High-priced suits versus ripped up jeans and t-shirts. But both members of the groups were doing the same thing - tapping on their phones, scrolling through messages.

Grissom stretched on more time, rubbed his face and returned to sit on the hard, plastic seat. His gaze landed several yards in front of him where a woman wearing a backpack was browsing through a newsstand.

And dammit if the woman didn't look just like Sara.

Grissom's apparition made him chuckle, yet, he leaned closer toward the direction the woman stood. Her long legs. The single strand of hair she absently brushed from her face. The way she pursed her lips and she looked through the articles of a magazine.

The woman moved inside the airport store behind the newsstand kiosk. Grissom shot up, gathered his two bags and went there as well. The woman moved from the magazines to a quiet corner in the back of the store.

She wasn't just a woman who looked like Sara. It was Sara.

He came behind her and without a word, touched her on the shoulder. She didn't turn around but responded. "Just a sec. I know we have to get to the international terminal, but..."

Then she faced him. Her fairly pleasant look quickly morphed to disgust. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her tone, while somewhat surprised, definitely held a weight of anger. Even in his sleep-deprived state Grissom could tell something was very wrong. While he found her beautiful, he noticed how tired she seemed. Almost exhausted. "Sara. I can't believe it's you... I'm on my way back home... back home to you."

Her reaction still smoldering, Sara brushed past her husband quickly and without a word. She bolted out of the store, and Grissom practically jogged to catch up to her. He reached her and grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. "Sara. Honey. Where are you going?"

Sara jerked her arm out of his hand. "I'm leaving. Get the hell away from me."

"Please," Grissom tried to hide his frustration as they stood in the waiting area of an unused gate. "What's wrong?"

"Your bitch called."

Grissom stopped talking and stood with his mouth agape.

"Gloating. About the two of you." Sara shook her head in disgust. "You fucking bastard."

Her venomous tone pierced Grissom's heart like a coal-fired spear. "Sara, please, let me try to explain. That's why I came back to the states...It's not what you... "

The slap to his face surprised Grissom, almost as much as it surprised Sara. With tears misting his eyes, Grissom spoke. "I deserve that... for so many reasons... but, please Sara, I need to explain. I don't know what she told you, but please give me a chance to explain."

"Don't give me any horseshit, Gil. You fucked her. I can't forgive that."

"No. Honey, please. That didn't happen."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man hesitantly watching them. Sara noticed the man too, and forced herself not to shed a tear. "Leave me alone. I have a flight to catch."

Grissom reached for her again. "Wait? A flight?" He recalled her mentioning the international terminal when he found her in the shop.

"Just get out of my way," Sara said.

"Are you going to Central America? Today? But you weren't supposed to leave for a couple of days. I was hoping I could go too..."

"No," Sara said adamantly. "Go back to your French whore for all I care. I'm leaving."

"Sara, please. Why didn't you tell me?"

Her frustration at a breaking point, she pushed him forward. "Why didn't I tell you? GOD! I'M SO SICK OF THIS SHIT! JUST... GET OUT! ... GET OUT OF MY LIFE!"

Slapped emotionally, Grissom took a step aside. He watched Sara join the man who had been watching them. She strode two full steps in front of the man, who tried to match her quick pace.

For a moment, Grissom thought about following Sara. But all he could hear were those final words she said to him. Even as he thought about buying a ticket to her destination and meeting her at the international terminal, he knew she would push herself further away from him.

So he let her go to do as she wished.

It was a decision they would both later regret.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Many, many thanks to MSCSIFANGSR (Chauncey) for her help with this chapter. It did not sound right and now it does.  
I apologize for the delay in posting. I'm trying to get my act together. I hope to have more soon. Comments, reviews are most appreciated.


	22. Chapter 21

A/N: This is a long chapter. Thanks to Chauncey for the edits. Hope you enjoy  
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 21**

"HEY SARA! STOP!"

At first she thought it was his voice, but then it registered that it wasn't her husband. And she definitely didn't want to hear his voice again anytime soon. So Sara stopped and turned around to see Ramon Alvarez catching up with her. The man in his late thirties was in good shape. His short sleeve t-shirt and khaki shorts showed off his well-defined arms and calves. But he still caught his breath before speaking. "You OK? That your ex or something back there?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Seemed to upset you pretty bad."

"Ramon," Sara said as she opened and closed her fists at her sides. "We've just met each other and it's really none of your business."

She went to turn and start another brisk walk when Ramon caught her arm. Sara did not take to that lightly. "Excuse me!"

Ramon put his hands up in surrender. "Hey, we're going to the same place and while what just happened with that man might not be my business, we're going to be spending a bunch of time together, whether you like it or not. Just slow down, OK?"

Sara looked at her watch. There was no reason to run to the international terminal, because they did have time. "Look. Sorry." She was adjusting her backpack when Ramon stood behind her and removed it from her back.

"Why don't I hold that for you?" he offered with a big smile. He put the backpack on his own back and placed his hands on her shoulders. Sara tensed as she realized how close he stood behind her and, in reaction, he kneaded her shoulders. "Now, let's just get to the international terminal and find a place to sit down. Maybe get a drink to calm our nerves."

Sara ducked her body to take a step forward away from Ramon. "I'd rather just sit and wait for the flight."

"Fine, you can brood and watch me drink," Ramon said, stepping next to her and nudging her with his shoulder. "It's my job to make sure you get to your destination."

They walked forward, at a leisurely pace. "Your job?" Sara questioned. "I thought that was American Airlines job?"

Ramon chuckled. "Even a big airline needs help from time to time."

* * *

The afternoon sun still lit up the sky after Grissom touched down in Vegas. He grabbed the first cab he saw waiting outside the airport. Before putting his two carry-on bags in the trunk, Grissom fumbled to find his house keys. He held them in his hand and entered the back of the cab.

"Headed to the strip?" the cabbie asked.

"No. Southeast," Grissom said as he relayed his home address. The address he and Sara had shared for more than a few years even before they were married.

"Oh, a local," the cabbie said as he pulled away from his spot. "Your complexion threw me off."

"Excuse me?" Grissom said, giving the cabbie a critical look.

But the cabbie just laughed him off. "Your pale, my friend. Lost your desert tan."

"Oh," Grissom said. "I've been out of the country for awhile."

Grissom returned his attention to the passing scenery of Vegas. It was such a contrast to Paris. But as a landscape of skyscrapers, hotels and casinos morphed into neighborhoods of ranch homes, Grissom realized what Vegas and Paris had in common. At this point in his life, sadly neither felt like home.

Although his arrival to Vegas did not go as planned, Grissom could barely wait to leave Paris. Grissom recalled how that was point of contention between himself and Denis as they, Amalia and Aloisio drove to the Chauncey home.

_"It will only make you look guilty, Grissom," Denis said._

_"I'll tell them I have a family emergency," Grissom said. "It's not a lie; I have to get back to Sara."_

_"I will arrange the meeting with the provost for tomorrow morning," Denis said. "But, Grissom, I insist you offer a recorded statement of the events that transpired."_

_"Denis, please, I don't want to press charges." Grissom could barely contain his frustration and shame. "I just want it to be over."_

_"You don't need to press charges, Grissom. But you need to tell your side of the story as soon as possible," Denis said. "You will need ammunition if Martin tries to press charges against you."_

_The backup of his text messages, Amalia's account of her boss' behavior before and after his drink and a toxicology report on the alcohol's contents — which Denis hoped to obtain from professor working in the criminology department — would lend credence to Grissom's statement, Denis added. "You have to protect yourself."_

Grissom appreciated Denis' concern, although he wondered if there was a reason he was so adamant about pressing charges against Sylvie. Not even Amalia, who he knew had no love for Mademoiselle Martin, did not press as hard as Denis. But she did agree with her husband's assessment of the situation.

_"If she believed you called the police, you might have time to talk to the provost before her," Amalia said. "I fear she might not be done with you, Professeur."_

Amalia was right. Sylvie wasn't done with Grissom. And because of her, the last words his wife said to him raged in his mind: "You fucking bastard." and "GET OUT OF MY LIFE!" Those phrases became sad, agonizing mantras that played in his head over and over.

"Hey? You still with me?"

Grissom hadn't noticed the cabbie stopped in front of his house. "Yeah. Sorry." Grissom handed the cabbie $30 in tens then got out to retrieve his bags.

As he walked to the front door, it struck Grissom that he hadn't been there in seven or eight months. He couldn't even remember. Once inside, a pang of longing hit Grissom. She should be here.

He threw his keys on the counter, and the sound reverberated off the walls in the empty house. Now guilt plagued his mind. After Hank died, Grissom noticed how the apartment in Paris seemed bigger without Hank's presence. But the Paris apartment could fit in this house three times. Grissom could only imagine Sara coming home to this empty house without Hank, without her husband.

Grissom shook his head in disbelief. The sound of Sara's "Get out of my life" reverberated in his mind. He realized she may prefer an empty house over the company of her own husband. And he couldn't say he blamed her.

He wondered when Sylvie called her. Sara's emotions were so raw. He still weighed the option of whether he should go to Central America or wait for her return or … he didn't want to think of the option of doing as she wished for him to get out of her life.

Walking into the living room, he noticed everything in its place. Even the picture of the two of them in Costa Rica, the one where he had his arms wrapped tightly around her, didn't have a bit of dust on the frame. Everything was as if he had never left. Nothing seemed to have been added or subtracted.

He entered the bedroom and even though he hadn't been there in months, it felt more familiar than anything else in the house. He hoped Sara hadn't had time to change the sheets. He wanted to climb under the sheets and inhale, hoping to take in Sara's scent.

But one thing in the room made his heart skip a beat. In the corner was a large moving box. Open and unmarked, Grissom feared Sylvie's phone call prompted Sara to start packing his belongings.

He hesitantly approached it and looked inside. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the contents were not his, but he was saddened to discover Hank's stuff. He extracted a couple of the items — one of his dog's spare collars and his favorite water dish. Hank had never even taken a drink from that dish; he used it to dip his paws after a run with Sara or a walk with Grissom. Looking at it brought back happy memories and tears to his eyes.

Every playtoy and item Grissom took out of the box jumpstarted a memory. The rope he and Hank used to play tug-of-war over and over. Hank's favorite, beat-up rubber newspaper that still had a tiny squeak left. The smell on the pooch's favorite blanket - a mixture of detergent and sleepy Hank - still lingered. There were even half-chewed pairs of running shoes and loafers.

Grissom wondered what Sara planned on doing with the box. Lost in memories of Hank, Grissom recalled the last moments he shared with his friend. The loss still felt painful and yet, it felt like a lifetime since he held Hank. He missed his friend. He grieved not having Sara with him after Hank was gone.

But that wasn't her fault. It was his. Taking that last term in Paris might have been the biggest mistake of his life.

Although he still wanted to climb in the bed, he knew he shouldn't without a shower. Sara hated when he got into bed "stinky." And after all the miles he had traveled in the past several days, he was more than just "stinky." He retrieved his toiletry bag and went into the bathroom. He needed his bar of soap, but it made him smile that there was still a bottle of his no-frills shampoo among Sara's various body washes and conditioners.

After exiting the shower and drying off, Grissom decided not to bother dressing for bed. He slipped under the sheets naked and breathed in the scent from Sara's pillow.

She hadn't changed the sheets. For the first time in days, he felt his body relax as he luxuriated in allowing his senses make him believe he was sleeping with Sara.

* * *

Sara's eyes opened suddenly. Startled and disoriented, her body jolted forward on cot where she had laid. She looked around the room seeking anything familiar.

Then she heard someone snoring.

Reality sunk in. She reached under her cot and found the backpack she stowed there. She heard Ramon snore so loudly he awoke himself.

"Shit," he said, before closing his eyes and falling asleep again.

Sara rolled her eyes._ They better not make us bunk together,_ she thought. _I'm insisting on my own damn tent._

Sara stretched to get the kinks out of her back and neck. When she and Ramon arrived at the airport in Managua, they saw a driver holding a placard that read, "Hawthorne."

Sara didn't like the way the driver kept staring at her; his eyes roaming up and down her body. Ramon spoke to the driver to confirm who he was and who he was expected to pick up and where they would be taken. Between the noises in the airport and the speed the two men conversed, Sara could barely catch a word.

Suddenly, the two of them broke down in laughter and the driver looked at her once more, smiled and gestured for her backpack. Sara gave him a skeptical look, which caused Ramon to wrap his arm over her shoulder. "Relax Sara. He was expecting someone completely different than you."

Sara removed Ramon's arm from her shoulder, took off her backpack and gave it to the driver, who nodded his thanks. "What do you mean he was expecting someone else?"

"His notes told him to drive a Ramon Alvarez... that would be me... and a Sara Sídal... which would not be you."

"Who is Sara Sídal?"

"She is a very popular, very busty actress who stars in the country's most popular television novella," Ramon said. "And, needless to say, you confused the man who expected someone with different looks."

_Needless to say?_ Sara thought. _It's going to be a long week with this guy._

The driver took them to an office some 20 minutes from the airport. The only woman in the office told them that someone would be by to retrieve them some time, but didn't know when. They were on Central American time now, and time itself can be fluid in many situations. She offered them to lay down on the cots in the storage room, if they needed rest. It surprised Sara how quickly she fell asleep.

Now awake, she wanted to freshen up. She retrieved her travel toothbrush, mouthwash and liquid soap, along with a bottle of water, and exited the storage room for the adjacent office.

The same woman who greeted them sat at the only desk in the room. As she listened to the radio, she worked on an adding machine and wrote down numbers in a ledger.

"Excuse me?" Sara said to the woman. "Um... el baño?"

The woman didn't look up from her work. "Adentro por el vestíbulo. A su izquierda."

Sara paused. Like Ramon and the driver, the woman spoke very fast, and Sara was still trying to acclimate herself to trying to communicate in a language she hadn't used in a couple of years. "OK. Somewhere on my left..."

The woman looked at Sara and gave a frustrated sigh. She waved toward the hallway she had spoke about. "Allí. Allí."

"Gracias," Sara said. She went into the bathroom and took care of her personal business. She was pretty sure she was in the city, so she didn't have a problem washing her face using her soap and water from the faucet. But just as a precaution, she used her own water to wet her toothbrush and rinse her mouth. Time in the jungle taught how to do that with a minimal amount of water. After rinsing with her mouthwash, she felt like a new person.

A new person who was still depressed about the current state of her marriage. Ramon tried to talk about what he witnessed in the Dallas airport, but Sara ignored all his attempts.

That didn't mean she didn't think about it the whole trip; she did, in fact there was little else she could think about. Sylvie Martin called her cell phone an hour after she came off shift and a half hour before she left for McCarron Airport to begin her journey to Central America.

And then on a layover in Dallas, Grissom had suddenly and unexpectedly tapped her on her shoulder while she was browsing in the kiosk. She blew up at her husband because Sylvie Martin's words still echoed in her mind. Everything was so fresh and raw. The things that bitch said made Sara's head spin.

The bastard. He looked so... well, guilty... but there was something else... almost like betrayal. He said it didn't happen... _Don't,_ she said firmly to herself_. He was probably backtracking. Figuring out how to talk his way out of it. What right does he have to feel betrayed?_

She couldn't believe Grissom did that to her, to their marriage. She thought she could trust him.

Because she'd trusted him before. He never lied to her. Might have hidden a truth or two from her, he had never outright lied to her. And he did say it didn't happen.

_You said you could never forgive him,_ she thought. _You meant that, right?_

Sara didn't notice she was crying until she looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw tears streaming down her face. She went to the sink and washed and dried her face again. Taking a deep breath, she looked at the mirror again. She needed resolve. This week wasn't about him, it was about her. Her future, her grant. She already rationalized it was better that she take this trip alone, and now she had a week to figure out what is right for her future. And if that future doesn't include him, well... so be it.

She took another deep breath and exited the bathroom. Coming down the hallway, she saw the woman was gone, and in her place at the desk was Ramon, who sat in front of a laptop. "Hey Sexy Sídal. Duerma bien? Sleep good?"

"Don't call me that," Sara said.

"Would you chill, please," Ramon said with a smile. "I charmed the office worker to let me use her computer while she fetched us some coffee. We're going to be out of wifi range for a while. I'm willing to give you a turn to send out any messages."

"Thanks. I would actually," Sara said as she approached the laptop. "And no, that doesn't mean you can call me that again."

"Tease," Ramon said, exiting his chair to give it to Sara. "When you mention me in the email, don't be skimpy about details on my good looks."

"Yeah. I'll remember that," Sara said. She opened up her email program and wrote a short note. "Made it to Central America safely. We'll talk when I get back. If I can, I'll send a message before I leave."

She typed in recipient names: Greg, Nick, DB... Gil.

Staring at the message, she pushed the delete key across the last name._ You said you can't forgive him. You meant that, right?_

She typed his name again. Her hand hovered over the delete button for a long few seconds as she considered whether or not he had any right to know what she was doing.

Then she deleted his name from the recipients list. She pushed send before she could change her mind again.

With a sigh, Sara checked her inbox. Not much was there. A part of her hoped Grissom had sent her an email, but the other part of her quashed the notion. She rose and switched seats with Ramon and looked out the window to see the sun the fading light of the afternoon sun. "The sun's going to set soon," Sara said. "You don't think they're going to travel to base camp in the dark, do you?"

Although she expected a smart-ass retort, Ramon closed the laptop and took a critical look out the window. "You're right. In another hour or hour and a half, it's going to be dark. But, you know, maybe they'll have us stay somewhere here and then we leave in the morning."

Sara was going to agree with him, until she saw a truck stop in front of the office. A man Ramon and Sara recognized — Fred Mandel from the Hawthorne Committee — got out of the truck and opened the front door of the office. "Let's go, you two. I want to cover as much ground as with can with the sunlight."

Ramon grabbed his bag, while Sara made sure she repacked her toiletry items and water. "So Sara," Ramon said as he held the door for her. "Ready for this adventure?"

Sara just took a deep breath and exited the office.

* * *

Grissom woke up sometime around 4 a.m. Bathed in the darkness of the room, Grissom cocooned his naked body in the sheets. His mind filled with images of he and Sara in bed together.

He closed his eyes and could almost feel her hand tracing circles upon his bare stomach. He turned on his side and imagined her hand snaking its way to his ass and stroking down his thighs. He felt himself get hard and closed his eyes tighter to imagine the feather-light touches she made as she hovered her hand over his groin, dipping ever once in awhile to cup his balls, stroke his penis or tangle her fingers in his coarse hair.

Then in an instant he imagined her grip turning vice like and when he turned to see her face, the fiendish look on Sylvie Martin's face filled his mind.

Quickly Grissom's eyes shot open and his penis became soft. He grabbed Sara's pillow and deeply inhaled her scent hoping her face would erase the evil one that invaded his mind.

He sat up in bed and headed to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up. He thankfully brought some deodorant with him, because the one he left months ago was dried up. Throwing the old one away and leaving the new stick on the counter along with a toothbrush he brought, he searched his closet and bureau for clothes. Blue boxers, a pair of white gym socks, a t-shirt from a 5K run (or in his case walked) for the SPCA, and an old pair of khakis that hadn't fit him in a few years sufficed as an outfit.

Before going to the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast, Grissom went to the CD player to find disc to lift his mood. He found the selection among his instrumentals — The Crow. It played for a full hour, as Grissom cooked, ate and cleaned up.

Still early in the morning, Grissom remembered his promise to contact Amalia. He went to the living room with a cup of coffee and his briefcase and sat on the couch, the first piece of furniture they purchased as husband and wife. He always teased her and said it was their marital throne. He could almost see Sara stretched out upon it with her legs nudging his thighs, a signal that meant he should rub her feet.

He wondered if that memory would ever come to life again.

The music had looped back to the beginning of the CD, and being on the marital throne prompted Grissom to play his favorite song on the CD on a loop. Track 6 always reminded him of his relationship with Sara — its relaxing rhythm, its interplay of the instruments, even its title and the explanation of the song.

As it played, he got to the task at hand. He took out his reading glasses, plugged in his laptop, connected to the wifi and opened a web browser to access his email. While there were many unread messages, he only searched for Sara's name, hoping there might be an email from her. Maybe she had told him about the change in itinerary and he missed the message. He even checked his junk mail. But he didn't find anything. He hadn't seen an email message from her in more than a month.

Downhearted, he then searched for emails from Amalia. There were two unread, both asking if his travels ended safely. She also reminded of his promise to email or call her. Amalia also asked, without being too obtrusive, about the situation with "SM" and that she'd heard nothing on that front as of yet. The woman had called out sick from her office at the Sorbonne since the morning after the incident at Grissom's apartment.

He replied to her email in a brief message: "I made it to Vegas safely. I don't know what I will do next. Thank you again, Amalia. You are a good friend. - Gil."

Before sending, he added a postscript: "Should I assume you will need more crackers?"

As he sat silently listening to the stringed instruments playing, he started to compose a new email.

"Sara, as I write this note, I am filled with grief for your pain, shame for what my actions have caused and a deep love for you. I do not know what you were told about what happened. And I know you don't want to hear anything to excuse what happened. All I can say right now is …."

_Is what?_ he thought to himself. _What could you possibly say? Your stupidity allowed that bitch to take advantage of you and put a damaging scar on your marriage? That you are an old fool who doesn't deserve Sara's love?_

"All I can can right now is I'm sorry. I can explain to you what really happened. I can explain how I fought to stop before it was too late. I know I probably don't deserve the opportunity. Perhaps your trust in me has totally vanished in this ugliness, but please know and trust what I will tell you will be completely honest. If you can find it in your heart to allow me to honestly tell you what happened, then you can make your decision, and no matter what it is, no matter how painful it might be, I will honor it. Few moments pass when I am not thinking of you, not reminded of you, not yearning for you. Even as we have drifted from one another these past few months, you always safely and permanently reside in my soul. I love you and cherish you, and always will. - Gil."

Grissom read over his note a half dozen times. He stood up and paced around the room thinking about what he wrote. He questioned whether he had the right to send it. He questioned whether she would even read it. She may even delete it just because he had sent it.

But he had to do something. He had to try. He couldn't let that bitch, Sylvie Martin, take away the most precious thing in his life, not without a fight. He heard the phone ring, so he hit send before answering the call.

* * *

"Oui?"

"Oh excuse me," said the person on the other line. "Do you speak English?"

Grissom laughed at himself and his faux paux. "Yes. I speak English. I apologize. I just arrived back in the states from France. Force of habit."

"Oh, no apology is necessary, sir. Is it safe to presume I am speaking with Dr. Gilbert Grissom?"

"Yes," Grissom said as he glanced at the caller ID on the other side of the cordless phone. It only read, "Unknown caller." "Who is this?"

"My apologies to you, sir. My name is Connor Headley. I am a researcher at Evaluation and Management Research and Psychological Services. I had spoken to your wife and Nick Stokes both having worked for you as CSI's. I had sent you an email about a project of which I am working."

"Yes, Mr. Headley," Grissom said, barely recalling the email but knowing the basis of Headley's project. "You're doing research for a documentary that includes interviews with Marshall Landry."

"That is correct, sir," Headley replied. "And in the course of doing interviews with both your former subordinates and with Mr. Landry, I learned of your role in the case and your interesting hypothesis regarding a possible survivor of Mr. Landry's."

"Mr. Headley, I appreciate the research you are doing, but that was a long time ago, and I'm not sure I can offer you anything more than what the reports and interviews with Nick and Sara have given you."

"I assure you, Dr. Grissom, your perspective on the case could greatly aid the documentary."

Grissom thought for a moment before speaking. "Mr. Headley, I'm not sure I agree with your assessment."

"I respect that, Dr. Grissom. But perhaps take a little time to think about it, if you would. The interview would take approximately 20 to 30 minutes, and I can promise you that it would not be a waste of your time, which I understand is valuable," Headley said. "I would welcome you to ask your wife about the veracity of my professionalism. I would hope she would answer you in the affirmative."

"Why don't you give me a call in a couple of days, Mr. Headley. Could I give you an answer then?"

"Of course, Dr. Grissom," Headley said politely. "I appreciate you offering this matter your consideration. Have a good day."

With that, Headley hung up the phone.

* * *

For the next hour, Grissom filled his time surfing the web and obsessively checking his email, hoping to get a response to his email from Sara. He went to different travel sites to check last minute fares to Central America, even though he hadn't convinced himself that going to Sara would be the wisest decision.

He hoped she arrived safely. She probably would have arrived there before he landed in Vegas. Grissom knew it was difficult to get a phone or email message out where she was, but...

The phone rang again and Grissom's thought went directly to Sara. He jumped to grab the phone and answer it.

"Hello?"

There was a pause on the other line. "Well, hello." The voice on the other line seemed to belong to a much older man. "I was looking to talk to Sara Sidle. Is she around, son?"

"No. She's not. Can I help you?"

"This isn't Gil, is it? Gil Grissom?"

"Yes."

"Well, goddamn. I didn't expect to be talking to you, son. Don't know if you would remember me, but it's Jasper. Jasper Rowe."

Grissom was taken back. Jasper Rowe was the man who had Hank before Grissom. He had a rescue shelter in Rachel, Nevada, a spec of a town with less than 100 residents in Lincoln County. Grissom found out about the shelter during a poker game, and decided to take a drive out on the Extraterrestrial Highway to see what it was all about.

Jasper was a good character who loved the animals he sheltered. He knew each animal's personality and after spending 10 minutes with Grissom, he told him, "You need to get aquainted with Hank." It was a match made in heaven. Grissom took the dog home that day.

After so many years, it was incredible to know that Jasper was still alive. Grissom thought he was about in his 70s when he got Hank. Still hearing Jasper's voice brought a smile to Grissom's face. "Jasper Rowe. Of course I remember you. How are you doing?

Jasper left out a hearty laugh. "I'm surviving, son. I'm surviving. Some days it's tougher than others, but don't matter much what it was like yesterday when you wake up the next day. Now, it's been quite a while since we've talked. Now, when did you get that wonderful mutt from me?"

Grissom smiled. He loved that mutt. "A little more than 10 years It's a surprise to be talking to you. Did Sara contact you before?"

"She did. She did, son," Jasper's voice faded a bit. "Son, she told me about you losing Hank. That must have been damn tough on you. He was one hell of a dog."

"He was. You were right about the two of us."

"Perfectly matched. I knew the deal was sealed when I told ya his name. Hammerin' Hank," Jasper said, his voice sounding hoarse as he fought a nasty cough. "Well, I was trying to get in touch with Sara 'cause I thought I had the perfect dog for her. I know she was a leavin' town soon. Thought I might catch her before she left."

Grissom's voice changed. "She... she actually left a couple days early, Jasper."

"Oh. Well that's a shame," Jasper said, disappointment evident in his voice. "I think Ernie's just right for her."

"Ernie? You mean like Ernie Banks?"

Jasper's hearty laugh returned. "Can't get nothin' past you, son. Not sure that Sara would have gotten that, but I it's sure funny you would."

"So Sara," Grissom asked. "She was looking to get another dog?"

"You know, son, I'm not one to go and readin' women that well, but she told me the hard time you were having since Hank passed. She said she was just lookin'."

_Maybe that's why she was collecting all of Hank's stuff,_ Grissom thought. "Well, she'll hopefully be back in a week."

"A week. Well, that'll work I suppose," Jasper said. "You know, you're welcome to come meet Ernie, if you'd like, son."

"I'm not sure Jasper..."

"I was just thinkin' if you had the time. You could see my new place."

"New place?" Grissom replied. "You're not in Rachel anymore?"

"Hell no. Son, a few years back you wouldn't believe the money a developer threw at me for that strip of nothingness in the middle of nowhere."

"Is that right?

Jasper laughed. "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'." A coughing fit seized Jasper.

"Jasper? You all right?"

"Oh hell, nothin' I can't handle, son," the old man said, his voice still hoarse and raw. "I'm out here near Sunrise. Maybe 20 miles past there. Still in the middle of nowhere, but that suits me and the dogs just fine."

Grissom thought about it. If Sara was thinking of getting another dog, maybe that could be a way for them to repair their relationship. Sara's love for Hank only made Grissom fall further in love their her. He truly was the missing piece of the puzzle of their relationship. Maybe that's why she contacted Jasper; she thought a dog would help their relationship, too.

But would she feel the same way now? _I don't know what I'd do without her,_ Grissom thought glumly. _Maybe I'll need a companion if she truly wants me out of her life._

"You still there, son?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. When were you thinking of me visiting?"

"Hell, why not come out today?"

Grissom looked around the empty house. "Yes. That would be fine with me."

"Well, hell, son, I'll look forward to catchin' up with ya. Go get yourself some paper. Those damn computers in people's car don't do a damn good job gettin' ya here. I'll just give you the directions."

Grissom found a pad and pen in a kitchen drawer. "Go ahead, Jasper."

As Jasper spoke, Grissom wrote, but after just a couple of words, the pen stopped working. He stripped the sheet of paper off the pad and took it to his desk where he found a pencil.

"So I'll see ya in a couple of hours?" Jasper asked.

"Yes. I look forward to it, Jasper."

"OK. Don't get lost, ya hear me, son?" Jasper said laughing.

"I'm pretty sure I've been in that area. I'll see you soon, Jasper."

"You bet, son. Drive safe."

* * *

Grissom had been in the area Jasper spoke about several years ago when he was investigating bodies found in the desert. But there's was hardly anything distinct in a 10- to 15-mile radius of the area. He followed the landmarks Jasper gave him. Specific road signs, rock formations and, most importantly, a turn-off marked by a handmade sign reading "Animal Rescue Center."

Jasper's center in Rachel, Nevada, was also surrounded by barren desert as well. It was located just off what is locally called "Extraterrestrial Highway." Grissom wondered if the developer who bought Jasper's property was hoping to cash in on UFO watchers.

The Mercedes had plenty of gas for the trip because Grissom filled it up while still in town. Years ago, there was only one gas station in Rachel, and it kept svengali-like hours that changed according to the whim of the casino-loving station owner.

Finally, Grissom spotted the sign Jasper spoke about. It wasn't easy reading the scrawl on it, and Grissom wondered in Jasper's dexterity had deteriorated with age.

The dirt road to the ranch style house went on for about a mile. A small, but well-kept ranch-style, concrete block home stood firm with the mountains as its backdrop. Grissom got out of the car, and was struck by how quiet it was. He couldn't hear any dogs, but they could have been in the back. And Jasper probably doesn't care for as many animals as he used to.

He walked to the door and saw a sign on over the doorbell. In very poor handwriting, it read: "Broke. Knock."

Grissom knocked on the door loudly. Getting no answer, he yelled, "Jasper?! Jasper?!"

He heard a commotion inside and then some moaning and what sounded like a call for help.

"JASPER?!" Grissom yelled again.

This time the call for help seemed more urgent. Grissom tried the doorknob, and when it turned he opened the door and went inside. He glanced around his surroundings taken in what he saw. But he couldn't see Jasper. He heard the groaning again and wheezing and saw a body on the floor behind a couch just outside a hallway. He ran to it in hopes of helping the old man.

* * *

_Monitoring people's emails isn't just about looking at their inboxes. Sent mail can tell you a lot too. I learned that a long time ago._

_So reading that sent email changed everything._

_The one thing I wasn't sure about when I read that sent email was why she sent it to three of her co-workers but not to him. I thought maybe he had traveled with her. But that one phone call to the house made me realize he wasn't with her. And the second phone call got him to me._

_She, like the other CSI, had already been taken. Would it be a true test of survival with someone who had already been taken to the brink and was taken again? I'm not sure it would. At least not for my purposes._

_Then it dawned on me: I was never his intended victim. I was taken out of the blue, with no prior reasoning, I think this is how it should happen with the person I take. From what I've discovered about him, he is a bright man. I am a bright man. His hypothesis about Landry's surviving victim... I feel connected to him._

_So I made a quick query checklist. How do I get to him? I know about the dog, I'll use the dog. Speaking like an old-timer wasn't hard. Getting a man who just lost his dog to think about getting another dog... well, he would either immediately dismiss it with a "I'm just not ready," or he would consider it. It was pretty obvious he was considering the idea and wouldn't reject it. And when someone considers something, you have to think like a salesman — the tough part is over, just go for a hard sell._

_After that, I just needed something to represent a body on the floor. I thought I did a good job with that old movie prop. But he didn't get as close as I wanted. The plan was to tase him when he bent down to check the body._

_But he faked me out. He went to bend down, and then something must have clicked. He stood up and turned just as I was approaching him with a taser. Out of instinct I charged him and he fell hard, shoulder first, into an end table. I had dropped the taser when I hit him, and it fell near where he laid. I didn't know if he saw it, but I didn't want to take a chance. Before he got up, I slammed into him like a pro wrestler, taking him down by that same shoulder that hit the table. By the sound he made, that seem to hurt bad. But that gave me the time to grab the taser, strike him with a charge and knock him out._

_That's how it all started. If she's going to be gone a week like originally planned, I have plenty of time to spend with him before anyone might notice. I think I'm going to enjoy observing Dr. Gil Grissom in the controlled setting I painstakingly developed._

_Of course, I have to remember, this is all for informational purposes only and I have to remain objective. But I have to be honest: I got a hell of a rush taking him down. Marshall Landry always had that goddamn smile on his face during his interviews when he talked about the kidnapping._

_Now I think I understand why._

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: I hope this was enjoyable. Was anyone surprised? Let me know. Love reviews, comments, hate mail, etc.


	23. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I owe nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 22**

Grissom's body ached as he regained conscious. He kept his eyes shut as he mentally catalogued where he hurt. The fire that invaded his body subsided, but his nerves still felt like they were on overdrive. He wondered what setting was used when he was tased.

The sharp pain in his shoulder made him wonder how badly it was injured. Was it strained or was something more seriously wrong? Obviously, now was not the proper time for diagnosis. The most important thing Grissom needed to do was control his breathing and figure out where he was, and the best way to figure that out was to open his eyes.

Except when he did, he couldn't see a thing. He rubbed his eyes and opened them again. Still nothing but darkness.

This wasn't good.

Grissom put his hand in front of his face, willing his mind to see something... anything. A finger. A shadow. An outline. But it was no use.

Did he become blind? He had never heard of a taser attack blinding anyone, and he was hit in the chest, and no near his face. His eyes didn't hurt. There didn't seem to be a particular trauma to his eyes.

Logically, Grissom reasoned he wasn't blind; he was somewhere dark. Maybe a cave? Or a room? Or a coffin?

The last thought immediately prompted Grissom to recall the image of Nick in that glass coffin. The stiffling, fear-filled nature of the memory jarred Grissom. He sat straight up, hoping to God he was able to move and not confined in a claustrophic box.

After sitting up, he stood up, pushing off his knees using his right arm to avoid stress on his injured left shoulder. _OK. I'm not in a box,_ he thought, feeling a bit of his anxiety subside.

But he still didn't know where he was. Or even if he was alone.

"HELLO? IS ANYONE HERE?"

Grissom turned his head from side to side and strained to distinguish any noise.

"HELLO?!" He called again.

He didn't hear an echo, only his voice. He took a tentative step forward, and noticed he wasn't wearing shoes anymore. He padded his pockets for his wallet, keys and cell phone, and discovered he was stripped of those items.

Grissom took another step and another, until he felt a solid wall in front of him. He leaned against and remember how many he steps he took before he hit the wall. Almost four. He raised his left arm to see if he could feel a corner where two walls meet, and he regretted the swift movement because it shot a ripple of pain throughout the left side of his upper body.

_Quick diagnosis: that hurt like hell. Something's messed up with my shoulder,_ he thought to himself.

He shook his head in frustration. _Thank you for that expert diagnosis, Dr. Grissom, you idiot._ Grissom mentally berated himself. He really messed things up this time. Where the hell was that keen sense of investigation he used to pride himself upon? It finally kicked in when he saw the body on the floor. Although a good facsimile, he knew it was a phoney body. He just realized too late. He tried to defend himself against whoever charged at him, but the he or she was quick.

Grissom couldn't even assume the sex of his assailant. If he had to guess, he would say he was a man. He was dressed from head to toe in black — long pants, long sleeves, head covered. Grissom couldn't even see the person's eyes.

And the assailant said absolutely nothing to Grissom, offering no clues as to who he or she might be and why Grissom was being held his or her hostage.

Hostage. What a terrifying word. "I have to find a way out of here," Grissom mumbled out loud to himself.

Mindful not to engage his left arm and shoulder in any way, Grissom put his body flush against the wall and moved to his left one step at a time. Using his right hand, he diligently touched the wall to evaluate if he could find any evidence to indicate a doorway — a door knob or frame seam. He also hoped beyond hope that he might get lucky and find a light switch. No sense giving up hope so soon after regaining consciousness. _Positive Grissom,_ he thought to himself. _You have to try and stay positive and keep your wits about you._

He had woke up on a concrete floor, and the wall also felt like concrete block. While he couldn't feel the seam of a doorframe, he could feel when one concrete block was sealed next to another one. He counted six painstakingly, small steps before he reached the corner of one wall meeting another. He turned his body to follow the perpendicular path of the new wall and begin another slow path.

Once again, Grissom felt concrete blocks, but no seams for a door. He had only taken three steps when he ran into something solid. Grissom bent down to touch the metallic object. Even in the dark, it took no time to determine he had found the room's commode. Bending over and using both hands, he made his way around the toilet and found the wall again.

But it took only one more step and Grissom encountered another object that was connected to the wall. Small, with rounded corners, the basin was not too deep and had no drain cover. Grissom lifted the handle of the single faucet to check for water flow. He neither felt any nor heard any. He sighed. _So much for having some water,_ he thought as he pushed the lever down. Then he had a second thought. If the handle is up, he might hear water run if the pipes are turned one, so he lifted the lever up.

The air in the room seemed to get thicker and hotter. Grissom felt beads of sweat form on his head and neck. The room's temperature seemed to spike dramatically in the last few minutes.

Wiping his forehead, Grissom resumed to feel his way around the sink to find the wall again. But as he did, his left leg bumped into what seemed to be a thigh-high wall. Grissom tried not to get turned around. He wanted to get the best sense of his surroundings as possible, so he returned back to the sink and worked around to get on the side opposite of the toilet and find the wall again.

He did, and a couple of steps later, he found two things - another corner and some type of tube that seemed to run from the ground and up the wall. Grissom wondered if it ran up to the ceiling. He evaluated the tube, but couldn't find a seam or an opening.

Returning his attention toward the wall, Grissom turned to feel the next wall, and started to move too quickly. He bumped hard into the thigh high wall again. "DAMMIT!" he yelled after ramming his leg against the protruding wall. "What the hell is this?"

The cement slab connected to the wall and the floor as a solid piece. Grissom felt the edges and seemed to be about a foot and a half wide and and maybe five and a half or maybe six feet long. A thin cushion, perhaps a foot shorter than the slab was set on top of it. "This must be my bed," Grissom surmised.

He felt his way around the bed and returned to the wall. The end of the bed seemed less than two feet from its perpendicular wall. Again, Grissom slowly felt along each wall hoping to find any evidence of an egress out of the room. Again he felt a corner, so he turned and took small, slow steps. Again he came to a corner, so he turned and took small slow steps. That was the fourth corner Grissom encountered. If he was in a rectangular room, he wondered if he was feeling the right side of the wall where he started.

He was now sweating profusely. Was the desert sun beaming down on the walls? If that was true, wouldn't the walls be hot? Because they were not. Was his captor turning the heat up in the room? That's possible. Grissom hadn't felt any vents, but he was unable to feel the ceiling, where the vents might be located.

Grissom found it hard to concentrate on his task, but kept going. Even know it was pitch dark, he closed his eyes tight as he hugged the wall and moved step for step. At times, he would forget he was surrounded by darkness, so when he opened his eyes and saw nothing, he would have to stop and keep a panic attack at bay. _Keep moving,_ Gil, he said to himself. _Don't stop yet._

There was one patch that he thought might be a seam. That, or it could have been a difference in the pattern of the concrete block. Grissom thought he found the patch again. He pushed upon it to see if it might move, but nothing happened.

Nevertheless, he wanted to commit the location of that portion of the wall by memory. To do so, he knew he would have to circle the room again and again, counting his steps as he did.

So, with sweat dripping off of him, Grissom hugged the walls of the room perhaps a dozen times. He lost count. Around each corner, around the toilet, around the sink, in the small one- to one-and-a-half foot area in front of the bed slab, around the bed. He repeated it over and over trying to get his bearings, and trying to find a seam to an elusive door.

_He got me in here some how,_ he thought to himself. _There has to be a way in and out of here. How else did I get in here. WHERE THE HELL IS THIS DOOR?!_

But he couldn't find anything. He was trapped in this room.

He stopped and stepped away from the wall. He just felt so unnerved, out of control. Then he shouted to himself: _Don't do that Gil! You need to stay next to the wall or you'll lose your place! Keep moving!_

Frustrated and physically spent, Grissom finally succombed to the heat in the room. He came upon the bed slab and sat upon it. His shoulder ached, and his mind filled with questions. He would voice the questions in his mind, one overlapping the other: _Why did you think it was Jasper who called you after so many years? He knew about Hank, but how did this person know about Hank? Did Sara really contact Jasper? Was our phone bugged? Why did he target me? Do I know who my assailant is? How long will I be here? I can't find a way out; how will I find a out? Will anyone know I am missing?_

Grissom's heart began to race as fast as his mind. Few people know he is in the states, most of whom are in France. In fact, all but one person.

_"GOD! I'M SO SICK OF THIS SHIT! JUST... GET OUT! ... GET OUT OF MY LIFE!"_

Her last words to him echoed in his head once again. Sara... the woman was his home... his life. And she wanted him out of her life. _She may never come back to Vegas,_ he thought.

His body swayed and Grissom caught the edge of slab to ground himself before he passed out and fall hard on the floor. He eased himself down on the slab and tried to find a position that didn't cause too much pain to his left shoulder. It was a futile act.

To silence the pain from his injury, his predicament and his grief, Grissom concentrated solely on his breathing and hoped he might just fall asleep. Maybe this was all a nightmare and when he would awake he would be bathed in light.

One can always hope.

* * *

_He walked around the room for three hours and I had the heater up high. The temperature was probably somewhere between 95 and 98 degrees. I was impressed he could concentrate on one task for that long, although I could tell he was floundering. _

_But he worked through his anxiety. Hate to tell you this, Mr. Grissom, but it's going to get worse._

_He's going to need some water soon, or he'll dehydrate. _

_He seems to be passed out now. That's what happens. You pray for sleep and when you wake up you have no idea how long you slept, how much time passed by. You have no clue when you should try to sleep again. _

_I'll keep an eye on him. The camera is working well, broadcasting a clear picture._

_Day one is almost done, Mr. Grissom. I'd say sleep well, but I know you won't._

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Thank you to all for reviewing. I apologize for the delay in posting. Work stories before play stories, I'm afraid. If you would like to offer a comment or review, it would be most appreciated. I'm interested in what you think will happen.


	24. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing related to CSI.  
Special thanks to Chauncey for the edit.

* * *

**CHAPTER 23**

When Sara and the others arrived at the campsite, the night had completely overtaken the jungle. It was pitch black except for a few dots of light here and there in various tents supplied by lanterns or flashlights. Sara found the warm glow surrounding the place comforting.

She was relieved that the tent assigned to her was with another woman and not with Ramon. That would not have been in his best interests, especially since Sara was still pissed over Grissom's behavior in the Dallas airport and she knew Ramon would probably have further gotten on her nerves by asking her questions that would bother her more.

With her roommate sound asleep, Sara realized how exhausted she felt. With her mind still on overdrive after the events of the last 36 hours, she was concerned she might suffer from insomnia. But that wasn't the case. The minute her head hit the rather lumpy pillow on the cot she fell asleep.

She awoke up the next morning as daylight seeped through what she recognized as a series of thread-bare tarps strapped together with twine instead of a standard tent as she expected.

_Hmmm, the Hawthorne Committee could have sprung for better accommodations,_ she thought, _I hope the bathroom conditions are better than my sleeping arrangements._

Instead of staying in the make-shift tent, she opted to get her bearings around the camp and figure out her specific duties for the week. She had gone to sleep in the same shirt and cargo pants she had worn on the plane, which didn't surprise her in the least.

Because doing laundry would be a luxury, her philosophy was to wear her pants until they could stand up by themselves. But that didn't go for every piece of apparel. She would change her shirt and underwear later, but she could wait until she found a fresh water supply to wash herself first.

But her socks had to be changed. In Sara's mind, socks were the most important part of her wardrobe in the tropic heat. She took off her boots which she had also slept in, then quickly removed her soiled socks, wiggled her toes, then put on a fresh pair.

She glanced at her bunkmate, the woman was sprawled, laying nearly naked in the early morning heat. Sara wondered if she could be that immodest with another person other than her husband.

_Stop thinking about him._

She quickly donned her boots and headed outside. And the sight before her startled her.

Sara would never describe herself as a prima donna, and she definitely had lived in her share of sketchy locales, as an adult and as a child. But when she saw the camp, her husband's description of "unnecessarily primitive" popped into her mind.

As those words reminded he again of Grissom, she still had this numb feeling that ensnared her heart. She thought her anger at him had subsided, but it was only replaced by grief about the whole situation. Perhaps because she wanted to push the thoughts of her husband out of her mind, she tried to look at the camp with rose-colored glasses.

Sure, the tents were worn thin, but in this rustic setting they might easily be repacked, in case campers needed to quickly move to another site. The compost pile needed some serious work, as the grubs and maggots became visible to the naked eye. But Sara knew lots of people don't realize it only takes one or two erroneous disposals to make a heap into a mess. With a few supplies, Sara could get the compost pile under control before it started to attract rats and snakes looking for those rats as food.

There did not appear to be enough mosquito netting in the camp, but she was sure that was No. 1 on the camp manager's supply list, along with fuel for the aging generator she saw outside the kitchen tent. She thought she would suggest putting the generator on a sturdier, more level platform instead of the nesting of sticks and broken branches haphazardly spread below it. A few two-by-twos, some nails, a hammer and a saw could fix that. _There had to be those supplies available somewhere, right?_

And there was an outhouse. Which was a plus. Some camps don't have them at all. It just needed some work. And, she was only here for a week, so it wouldn't be that bad.

_Unless you're chosen as the grant recipient. Then this or a camp in the same condition might be your home for a long while. Are you sure you're OK with that?_

Dammit. That nagging voice … that voice of rational, objective thought … that voice that sounds exactly like … him.

_Time to throw caution to the wind, Sidle,_ she thought. _Yeah, you're fuckin' bitter. You deserve to be. But fuck him. You WILL make this work._

Sara took a deep breath, put a smile on her face and went back to the tent to grab a few things. She shoved a bottle of water, her travel toothbrush and toothbrush into a pocket of her cargo pants, and went outside again to venture around again.

She walked a few yards from the campsite and found a clearing where there there seemed to be remnants of a fire pit. She saw a log on the ground that looked it was used as a seat in front of the seat. But before sitting upon it, Sara kicked it a few times for good measure. After seeing that no ants or other creepy crawlers popped up to announce they were disturbed, Sara sat down, took a deep breath and smiled.

This was going to be good, she thought to herself before retrieving her supplies and brushing her teeth. She felt relieved to be at least a little clean.

She then, made her way towards the kitchen tent to see if there might be provisions for coffee. Inside she found someone with her back turned to her. Sara assumed it was a her because the person was wearing a pair of Daisy Duke-cut jean shorts and a sports bra, which revealed a lower back tattoo that read "Juicy" in very ornate script. Secretly, Sara was hoping it was a guy because she was sure a guy like that would make her week in the jungle even more interesting.

But when the person turned around, it was a female, and she wasn't happy. "Do you know where the fuck the matches are? Every time I fucking come in here nothing is where it fucking should be! Can't find the matches. Can't find coffee. Can't even find my fucking mug! I am so fucking sick of this place!"

_Don't fuck with Juicy,_ Sara thought. "Listen, I have some waterproof matches in my kit," Sara said as she cautiously approached the 20-something-year-old. "I'll help you find the coffee I could use some myself."

"Look, lady, don't be condescending," Juicy said. "This place is on my last nerve. There's no coffee because Fucking Fred or Asshole Oliver probably lost it during some backjack games with the locals after they lost their cash."

Sara put her hands up in surrender. "Let's just calm down and look..."

Juicy just laughed as she swatted a mosquito on her shoulder. "Great. Another middle-aged mom thinking they are going to find the glory of the world in middle of nowhere," Juicy said, sarcasm and frustration thick and in her tone. "Oh! Did you hear that, mom? I think I heard a rooster in the distance. Why don't you go write in your journal about how it reminded you of the innocence of the morning and the raw beauty of unspoiled nature sans the distractions of the modern world."

Sara didn't know what pissed her off more. The fact that this Juicy called her middle-aged, or thought she traveled to another country to listen to a fucking rooster. "I'm not a mother to anyone and if I had a journal, I'd probably chronicle the different ways I could hide your body so it was never found because, like you, I'm in desperate need of coffee."

The only sound between them was Juicy swatting another mosquito. "Goddamn bugs. And before you say, 'Why don't you put a shirt on?' I can't because... ah who gives a shit. I'm leaving anyway."

"Wait," Sara said before the girl left the tent. "Just. … Hold on."

Juicy stopped. "What? You going to knife me and then dismember me?"

"No," Sara said seriously. "It's easier to break your neck. I say you fell down and then I would trade your shoes for coffee."

Juicy rubbed her tired face. "All right. I surrender."

"Good," Sara said with a small smile. "I'm Sara."

"Janice."

_Ramon is going to have a field day with her. Juicy Janice,_ Sara thought. "Let's go to my tent. You can have one of my t-shirts. We'll get the matches and start the fire pit."

"Whatever. Doesn't matter to me, I'm leaving later today," Janice said, fighting every ounce of her being not to be pleasant. She was pissed and wanted to stay that way. "I'm sweaing and can't seem to get dry. I'm so freakin' hot. And I got a shirt, somewhere. It's just a wet and moldy. I was going to wait for it to dry and then wear it out of here."

"Then think of the shirt as a souvenir," Sara said. "Look, even if you're leaving, who wants to wear a moldy shirt on a plane?"

"Yeah, OK," Janice said, her bitterness resolve slipping. "Thanks."

Sara just nodded her head and the two left for the tent.

* * *

"How long have you been at this camp?" Sara asked after she got the fire started.

Janice, dressed in Sara's "Vegas High Roller" t-shirt, sat on the same log Sara used when she brushed her teeth. Because Janice was in such shorts, laid down her bathing towel on the make-shift bench before sitting upon it. "Twelve days," said the horticulturist from Oregon as she tugged at the shirt so she can read it. "Seriously, where did you get this lame t-shirt?"

Sara snickered, completely unaffected by the comment. "Gag gift from work. I'm from Las Vegas and not a gambler."

"Tragic," Janice said, but in a friendly way and with a smile. "Least it hides the tat."

"You want to hide it?"

Janice shot Sara an exasperated look. "Do I look like the kind of person who would get a Juicy tattoo of their own free will?"

Sara pressed her lips into a grin and shrugged her shoulders. "Well... you do have a Juicy tat."

Janice actually laughed. "Yeah, but do I look like someone who would enthusiastically choose to have one?"

"No," Sara said honestly, shaking her head. "Not really."

"Too many 'shrooms plus one asshole ex-boyfriend equals instant trashy memento," Janice said. "But I got him back."

"Yeah? How?"

"I got out my good stuff — home-grown, blow-your-ass-out-of the-water shit. Got him so stoned, he swore his Aunt Patty turned into a monkey and was sitting on his shoulder," Janice said, luxuriating in the memory. "Naturally, I took him to a parlor and got him a matching tat. Bonus to this tale? Guess who got busted for bad check writing and was in lock-up within a week of getting his new tattoo? Juicy George!"

While Janice cackled, Sara cringed with a smile. Tramp stamp plus jail equalled some blood flowing, in some way, shape or form.

"So how long you putting up with this place?" Janice asked Sara.

"A week."

"Well, good luck," Janice said

"You seem eager to leave," Sara said. "Anything I should know about?"

Janice looked deep in thought, but just as she was opening her mouth, they could hear Fred Mandel just outside the clearing. Janice closed her mouth and shook her head. "You know. I was a total bitch to you this morning, and … that was just not cool. It's been a very long 12 days. I'm lucky to be leaving a couple days early. But I really don't want to shit on your parade before it starts."

"You won't be," Sara said. "I want to be as objective about this whole trip as possible. If there's something you think that could have been done better..."

Before Sara could continue the conversation, Fred swept in and spoke. "Damn, I love waking up to see two hot women waiting to say, 'Good morning.' How you two doing today?"

Janice shot Fred an unfriendly look and stood up, putting the towel in front of her lower body. Sara felt the tension immediately. "We were just chatting, Fred..."

Sara hoped she could throw Fred a hint to leave them alone, but Janice didn't want to stay. "We leaving soon, Fred? I don't want any problems getting to the city."

"You have a time set?" Fred asked, still trying to be cordial.

"I'll get ready now. We can leave in a few," Janice answered. "Good luck, Sara. And thanks for the lame shirt."

"No problem," Sara answered, as she watched Janice leave the clearing.

"So," Fred said, taking the seat Janice vacated, "did Janice share with you the trials and tribulations of the drama queen?"

Sara eyed Fred carefully. He reminded her of a used car salesman, always trying to put the customer on his side and avoid looking at any dents or dings in his own product. "Actually, she didn't say much to me about her time here. She seems like a tough person with an excellent background in horticulture."

"Oh, she's tough all right. Like a piece of leather you give to a dog."

"I meant that in a positive way," Sara countered. Although Janice didn't say much about her background, she had just earned a doctorate in horticulture at Oregon State, and had done four internships, both in-state and overseas. Sara hoped to get more information from the younger woman, but once Fred showed up, Janice looked like she couldn't wait to leave the camp and the Nicaraguan jungle.

"Hey, not everyone is meant for this kind of work, even the tough ones," Fred said, already starting with the hardsell. "There is a lot to be said about flexibility, rolling with the punches. Am I right? I mean, honestly Sara, you really want to hang out in a place like this with some kind of type-A, control freak who has to measure everything to a tee? I mean, it's not like we have time clocks out here. Or any clock, for that matter. Am I right?"

If Sara were ever to invent a drinking game for this exhibition, it was definitely be hinged upon Fred's phrase, "Am I right?" He used it constantly in her last stint with the Hawthorne Committee, and, obviously, he was still in love with the phrase. It would take 20 minutes, tops, to get plastered while talking to this guy.

"Flexibility is important, but so are facilities where you feel secure and safe," Sara said. "Maybe Janice can offer suggestions to make the camp better?"

Fred flashed a big smile at Sara. "Anyone ever tell you how you're such a fair-minded person?"

"I'm sure Janice wouldn't have been invited here if she wasn't able to contribute to the project," Sara said. The woman's doctorate in horticulture would be perfect for the study of the grant — invasive species of flora in different regions of the jungle and the effects it has on the fauna of that region. The grant would also cover research concerning documentation and classifying the origins of the invasive species and how they might have been manifested in the region. The grant would need horticulture gathering, animal observation (including bugs) and investigative research and charting, which was one of Sara's specialties.

"Of course Janice's experiences seemed to match the grant," Fred said smoothly. "But not everyone is suited for work outside the laboratory."

Even though Sara spent about 30 minutes with Janice, it seemed the young woman could hold her own outside any classroom and laboratory. "It's just a suggestion, Fred. There's always room to improve."

Even salesmen know the time to give a little. "I tell you what, beautiful. I have a long drive with Ju... Ms. Janice, and if she'll offer concrete suggestions that don't involve building an indie coffee house in the middle of nowhere, I'll be sure to take note. Can't hurt to ask. Am I right?"

And that would make the third shot in five minutes. "You are right," Sara said sweetly, sarcastically. "But before you're going, I need to ask you a few things about..."

Fred cut her off. "Don't worry, Sar. Your bunkmate — Vicki Edwards — will let you know about the progress and your role for the week. She's a hell of a worker and not a bad looker," Fred ended his statement a "hah hah hah" complemented with the raising and lowering of his eyebrows.

"OK. That's good," Sara continued. "But I was also thinking about supplies. If they aren't here, maybe you could get some in town."

"Not to worry. Coffee's on the list."

"I had a few more concrete things in mind," Sara said. "Why don't I write them down for you?"

Fred stood up. "Tell you what, I'll see if I can find something to write on..."

Sara immediately extracted a pad a pen from a cargo pocket. "Sit down. We can do this now."

Fred acquiesced with a smile. "Got to hand it to ya, Sar. After being with a bunch of young guns, it's nice to be around someone more seasoned and prepared like you."

Sara sighed inwardly. That was the second time this morning she was reminded about her age. Was she this middle-aged jilted woman seeking affirmation in the jungle? _NO!_ She shouted to herself. _I'm a well-respected, highly-intelligent professional who will add absolute value to the work here. Now, excuse me while I write a completely OCD list so this prick gets exactly what I need._ "How nice of you to notice, Fred. Now, if we could get to the supplies..."

* * *

After he received his "to do" list, which he quickly pocketed, Fred introduced Sara to Oliver Johanssen. Oliver was a man in his late 50s whose skin resembled tanned leather and whose breath, fingertips and teeth revealed as much about his long-term smoking habits than the soft pack of red Pall Malls residing in his breast pocket. Oliver showed her where the water supplies for drinking and bathing were, and gave her a tip about the outhouse — always use a stick to knock before entering.

Sara went to her tent to retrieve her toiletries and clothes to get a quick bath. Her bunkmate was up... up and straddling Ramon as they two proceeded to screw each other senseless. Sara didn't know what was worse — the sound or the smell or the fact they didn't stop when Sara was standing there. Sara even thought Ramon was motioning her to join in.

_Terrific,_ she thought. She exited the tent a little embarrassed and a little disturbed. It's not that Sara was a prude who never walked in on people having sex (or had someone walk in on her having sex). But when Ramon turned look at her, Sara could only imagine Grissom's face while he screwed Sylvie Martin.

She darted to the fire pit again, and sat on the log. "Goddamn you, Gil," she whispered aloud. The flair-up of her emotions affected her mentally in the same way the stillness and humidity of her outside environment affected her physically; she felt filthy, nauseous and alone.

Although she didn't have a watch, Sara figured she would let some time pass before she went back to get her stuff. Seems she had a lot of time on her hands in this jungle.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: My apologies for the long time in posting another chapter. I had some work and personal "issues" that needed to be dealt with. But good news, thanks to the inspiration and help of Chauncey, there are two more chapters ready to go. So, I will be posting more soon. Thoughts, comments, reviews are most appreciated. Thank you for taking the time to read.


	25. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 24**

"Oh, good. The fire's going."

Sara turned her attention to person who entered the clearing — her bunkmate Vicki Edwards. In one hand she had a pot of water and she drew the fingers of her other hand in her short, cropped hair. Around her neck was a towel, and she wore a grin on her face that seemed to say "Good morning. I just had a good fuck, how bout you?"

Of course, the last sentence could have been complete embellishment on Sara's part. Without saying a word, Sara offered a soft smile.

"Yeah..." Vicki stammered on what to say next. "I'm just going to act like this is the first time we've met, so I'm Vicki. I was going to wash and then I was hoping we could sit down and talk about what we'll be doing."

"Sounds fine," Sara said, standing up to greet Vicki. No harm restarting on a good note. "I'm Sara Sidle."

Vicki put the pot on the fire pit to warm the water, then she shook Sara's proffered hand. "Vicki Edwards. I'm directing this leg of the project. I've looked at your background, I'm excited about you incorporating your investigative abilities and detailed research tactics. I think you'll enjoy the work here."

And just like that, Sara felt a surge of positive energy. The look of the camp, the meeting with Juicy Janice, the use of her tent as a set of a porn movie, the state of her marr... she wasn't even going to go there. All that dissipated and Sara felt good again.

"Are you making coffee?" Sara asked as she pointed to the pot.

"No. I'm just heating the water for my jungle shower," Vicki said. "I'm kind of a priss. The rainwater's cold, so I just heat up a little of it, combine it with the larger bucket of water, and it just makes it more bearable."

"Good idea," Sara said.

Vicki smiled and used her towel as a pot holder so she could pick up her warm water. "Come on. I'll show you where to shower, then you can take the pot to warm your own water. I'm assuming you want to use the shower after me?"

"Yeah, I would."

"Unless you want to use the shower with me?" Vicki salaciously grinned.

Sara blanched. "No..."

"You sure?" Vicki questioned still smiling. "Did I mention how terribly inappropriate comments and situations make me laugh? I do that to everyone. Hope you have a sense of humor."

Vicki turned to leave for the shower area before Sara could say anything.

* * *

Vicki explained to Sara how two people from the another phase of the project rigged the small, shower stall out of wooden 2x4s and plastic tarps. It resembled a cabana, one that had been jerry-rigged a few times since tarp looked ripped in some places after bad bouts of weather. "We used to have these black, plastic shower bags we would fill every morning and lay out in the sun, and we had like a small-hammock where we stored our soap and shampoo while we washed, but they disappeared about a couple of weeks or so ago," Vicki said. "Kind of miss them, especially the water bags, but its not too bad without them. Mixing hot and cold water works good, too."

Sara noticed how Vicki had a mesh sponge and two small, plastic containers set on an equally-worn plastic stool in the stall, but she placed her towel with her clothes outside on a rock. "You have soap and shit, right?"

"Yeah, I have some Dr. Bronners liquid soaps."

"Biodegradable, rinses off easily," Vicki said, seemingly impressed. "This isn't your first rodeo, is it?"

"No," Sara said.

"I hope it's not the lavender scent," Vicki said.

Sara laughed. "No, I made that mistake the last time. The bugs had a field day with me. You'd think I would have known better since my husband's..." Sara stopped herself. "Anyway, the almond smells better."

"Peppermint does too. It's tingly...all over," Vicki added with a slight raise of her eyebrows.

Sara smiled at the innuendo, and was relieved Vicki didn't pick up on her husband comment. "OK. I'm going to get my stuff out of the tent. I'll be back after you finish."

But before she left, she and Vicki heard a loud cry of "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" coming from the other side of the camp. Sara looked concerned, but Vicki was laughing. "Come on!" she excitedly said to Sara. "I think Ramon got the surprise of his life at the outhouse."

Although Sara followed Vicki, she had a tough time thinking anything humorous could come from a surprise at an outhouse.

The two women found Ramon practically hyperventilating and Oliver talking to him in a very uncompassionate manner. "I'm not going to go in and kill anything. That's not what the fucking stick is for! You're just going to have to learn to shit the right way, you idiot!"

"Hey, Oliver. Hey, Ramon," Vicki said with a huge smile on her face. Upon seeing Vicki, Ramon puffed out his chest and tried to control his breathing.

Vicki shook her head at Ramon. "Sounds like someone didn't use the stick."

"I didn't know!" Ramon whined. "But now that I want to use it, I've been told that's a stupid idea!"

"It is a stupid idea," Vicki replied, which seemed to emasculate the embarrassed Ramon further.

At this point, the vague details frustrated Sara. "Exactly why do you we need to use a stick to bang on the outhouse before we enter it?"

"Cause of Hiss," Oliver said.

"Hiss?"

"A really big fucking snake. Like anaconda size," Ramon said. "This idiot thinks its some kind of pet."

"It's not an anaconda and it's not a pet," Vicki said.

Pieces began to fall into place for Sara. "So the camp has somewhat of a symbiotic relationship with Hiss. It keeps the rats away, and to make sure you don't share the bathroom with Hiss..."

"You use the stick to bang on the outside of the outhouse, and Hiss goes away to let you do your business," Oliver finished, sounding quite exasperated. "He makes sure the rats stay away. How goddamn hard is that to understand?"

"This is fuckin' insanity," Ramon said. "That's it. I'm just going in the brush or something."

As Ramon stalked away, Oliver yelled at him. "Fine and dandy with us, ya idiot! That's one less shitter to deal with!"

Sara looked at Vicki, who was ready to burst into giggles. The two walked away together. "OH! That reminds me," Vicki said. "Ramon was looking for you this morning."

Sara gave Vicki a blank look. The younger woman's blasé attitude puzzled Sara. "Umm... OK."

"Hey, you two aren't like a thing, right?"

"No," Sara said adamantly. "Actually, I'm married."

"Yeah, well so am I," Vicki stated. "I just wanted to make sure I wasn't... you know... stepping on your toes or anything."

"You didn't," Sara said succinctly, hoping the subject would end.

"Listen, none of my business," Vicki started, "but there's nothing like a good fuck to take your mind off the garbage you left at home."

Sara didn't respond to that comment. Instead she headed for the tent to await her turn at the shower.

* * *

It was mid morning before Sara, Vicki and Ramon were ready to sit down and discuss duties. The two newest members of the camps studied some of the research and findings that had been done by previous members in the past two months. Ramon, a zoologist from Monterey, California, concentrated on some of the observations of the local fauna. Sara noticed he also would steal glances at Vicki, especially when she was in a position where her more-than-ample cleavage was exposed.

"We should have four more researchers come in tonight or tomorrow morning," Vicki said.

"What are their specialities?" Ramon asked.

"Well, I think a couple of them are horticulturists. Janice seemed to know one of them. Said he was hot," Vicki said, as a wicked smiled covered her face. She twisted a strand of her black hair. The curve of Vicki's face, her dark eyes and hair and her confident sexuality reminded Sara a little bit of Lady Heather.

"OK, so there's a hot horticulturist or two," Ramon said, enjoying Vicki's overt sexual nature, "and who else?"

"Umm... I think one was a research assistant... Oh! And an entomologist. I forgot about him. He was a late addition."

Sara's head shot up. A late addition entomologist? He wouldn't. Would he? "You don't know the name of the entomologist, do you? Or where he's from?" Sara asked.

"Nope. Just a bug guy, which we need around here. Usually they're kind of weird, but he'll probably help the project a lot."

Sara's mind flashed back to the memory of Gil Grissom showing up in Costa Rica. It was unexpected, but welcomed. But the thought of seeing Gil's bow-kneed gait suddenly appear in this Nicaraguan base camp caused ball of anger form in Sara's gut. _Try as he might, that gesture won't work this time around._

"But I'm not sure when everyone is arriving," Vicki said. "Things have been in a state of constant flux here, well... kind of since the beginning. You know, things get canceled without explanation. Supplies get diverted. Reports come up missing. Personality conflicts. It's just been one thing after another. I think they will be here tonight, but who really knows? I forgot to ask Fred about that before he left this morning."

Ramon grinned from ear to ear, and placed his hand on Vicki's. "Don't worry babe. As long as I'm here, you've got the a-team on the job."

Vicki couldn't hold in her laugh and pulled her hand from under Ramon's to cover her mouth. "Oh God." Vicki couldn't stop her giggle fit. "I'm sorry. Don't be offended. It's just... oh my God... if Janice was still here, she would have flipped out on you about that. Oh my God, it would have been hilarious."

Ramon remained cool. "Hmm... so who is this Janice? Maybe you should introduce us."

"She left this morning with Fred," Sara said. "Interesting person."

"Oh, she was the best," Vicki said. "I hate that she left early. I mean, I kind of understand it, but maybe it wasn't as bad as she thought... not that she didn't try to understand why it was done, but for someone like her..."

While Ramon just stared at Vicki as if he was undressing her, Sara listened intently, trying to read between the lines since Vicki wasn't offering much solid information. "Sounds like she was frustrated about something."

Vicki's face changed from her being without a care, to having a weight upon her shoulders. She was visibly uncomfortable. "Well, yeah... I mean... You know... like I said... it's been one of those projects. But anyway... yeah... let's talk about what's been done and kind of outline our week, taking into account more researchers coming in."

Effectively closing the conversation, Vicki outlined responsibilities and mapped locations for daily routes for Sara and Ramon, who were both anxious to get started right away.

Fueled by their enthusiasm, Vicki led them in some hiking and recording in areas they could reach exclusively on foot. The physical exertion was a welcome reprieve from the dinginess of the camp. Sara marveled at the rich, vibrant flora of the jungle. Animals were naturally elusive, but the trio knew patience was the key to observing them in their habitat. Soon enough they would catch a glimpse of a sloth or an anteater.

There were times, the three of them went in different directions, sometimes for actual work. But there was one point Vicki and Ramone disappeared together for a lengthy amount of time and came back acting secretive and smiling. Sara could only laugh at them and their attempts to hide what they had been doing.

The day proved to be a productive, if not exhausting, nine hours for Sara. The trio arrived at the base camp just as the sun was setting. Sara wondered if Fred had returned. She wanted to inquire about the supplies she asked him to retrieve. After a quick meal fixed by Oliver, Sara observed as Ramon was trying desperately to seduce Vicki again.

_Better her than me,_ Sara thought. _And if he's successful, it better be in his tent._

Ramon seemed to have made his case with Vicki, as she watched the two of them disappear toward his tent. Sara relaxed by the fire, but soon had to surrender due to the overwhelming presence of bugs. Sara thought about looking for Fred, but she could no longer fight her exhaustion. Instead, she rinsed herself off, found something lightweight to sleep in and fell to sleep with little trouble.

The sun rose before Sara knew it. She sat up in her cot and was surprised to see Vicki alone in her cot, clad in only a skimpy pair of thongs. She was sound asleep, so Sara repeated what she did the morning before and ventured outside the tent.

She wandered around the outskirts of the camp to stretch her legs and clear her head. Despite getting sleep, the dreams and images that filled her mind lingered. Memories of happy times with Gil morphed into a well of emptiness. It was hard for her to describe; it was like a vacuum was slowly sucking away treasured moments that Sara drew upon as evidence of their love.

Walking helped relieve her tension, so she walked until the images completely dissipated. Finally, she headed back to the base camp after she thought she heard a truck engine roaring in the distance. Hoping Fred had returned, Sara went into the kitchen tent in search of something she missed — coffee. There were new supply boxes strewn on the dirt floor, but as she looked in each of them, she found no coffee. _Maybe Fred has it in his tent,_ she thought optimistically. Coffee isn't exactly a major luxury. He should have bought some.

Just then Oliver popped his head in the tent. He looked haggard, but seemed to know exactly what Sara was doing in the tent. "Didn't find any?"

"Coffee?" Sara replied. "No."

"Shit. I'll go check his truck. Maybe he left the coffee in there."

Sara nodded her head. "I'll go with you. I asked for other supplies, too."

The two went to beat-up 4x4 pickup truck, with its fair share of scratches, dings and dents. They spied under tarp in the bed, only to find a small roll of chicken wire, no bigger than a rolled up poster, some twist ties, one 2x4 and a box of nails with spots of rust on them. Sara opened the cab doors and searched on top and under the seats for something.

"Find anything?" Oliver stood right behind her.

"Just the tool box."

"Shit. I should have gone with that stupid son-of-a bitch. He left yesterday before I could jump in the damn truck," Oliver said. "I'll be back. Gonna have a talk with ole Freddy, boy."

"Well could you ask..." But Oliver walked off quickly before Sara could ask something else, so she followed him.

Oliver moved fast for an older guy. He had already searched Fred's tent and was headed for another tent when Sara caught up. "He's probably with Vicki."

Sara raised her eyebrows and hoped he wouldn't find Vicki in the same position with Fred as she found her the morning before with Ramon. Fortunately, that wasn't the case, but Vicki seemed perfectly comfortable standing in her thong and cut off t-shirt with Fred's hand caressing her back.

When the two of them saw Sara and Oliver, Fred ended his conversation, removed his hand from Vicki, then patted Sara's shoulder as he left the tent. But Oliver was quick to grab his arm before Fred could disappear. "Hold on there, boss. We need to talk."

The two men left the tent together, leaving Sara with Vicki who was deep in thought. "What's going on Vicki? Something wrong?"

Vicki paused before she spoke. She took a deep breath then offered a weak smile. "Another glitch. Seems those four researchers canceled at the last possible moment. They aren't coming, at all. So it's up to us to finish what we can."

Sara hadn't really realized the secret anticipation she felt since hearing the news that an entomologist would arrive at their site. Now that group of researchers weren't coming, she felt a wave of disappointment flow through her.

_But you're only disappointed because the other researchers didn't show up,_ she admonished herself. The fact that Grissom wasn't is a good thing. A really good thing. That's what she kept telling herself.

Realistically, Sara knew the loss of four workers would hurt the project. "Vicki, there's not enough people to do all the work we've been given in the amount of time we have left. Even if we had the other four researchers. Did Fred say why? What happened that all of them just wouldn't show up to work?

"Hey, you know... Doesn't really matter," Vicki said as she dodged the question. "We'll just have to buck up and plow forward the best we can and really try not to get sick of each other."

"Well, we have to get the work done," Sara said. "The five of us are going to be joined at the hip for the next five days, aren't we?"

At Vicki's almost dejected nod, Sara knew it really was going to be a long five days.

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to Chauncey for this chapter. Hey, next one is almost complete and will include different points of view. Reviews, comments, etc. are most appreciated. And thanks always for taking the time to read.


	26. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 25**

Amalia stood in the small kitchenette shared by all of the professors on their floor slowly preparing her morning cup of tea. She would usually sit at the small table, read a journal or chat with another co-worker as she enjoyed her beverage, but today she felt restless and a bit uneasy. She had not heard from her boss since he had first arrived in Las Vegas some three days ago. It had been painful to witness a man of such intelligence, compassion and dignity leave Paris in shame.

She left the kitchenette deep in thought and almost bumped into the provost. Thanking the heavens above she didn't spill her hot tea on the man, she offered him an apologetic smile and nod, the walked quickly to her office.

Upon entering, she noticed the door to the professor's office was standing open whereas previously she knew the door had been closed. She felt a brief bit of relief at first thinking perhaps Grissom had returned. That is, until she got closer to the door and peeked inside the office.

"Mademoiselle?!" Amalia could not control the anger of her voice, which was uncharacteristically louder and higher than normal. "What do you think you are doing?!"

Sylvie Martin turned her attention from an opened drawer in Grissom's desk to face Amalia.

"How dare you speak to me like a common criminal," the woman hissed. "I am merely retrieving something and you weren't at your assigned station. Where were you and what exactly were you doing?"

Amalia couldn't believe the woman, she had literally caught the woman with her hand the cookie jar, and the bitch had still turned it around and made it about her not being at her station. But Amalia knew she didn't have to justify anything to Sylvie Martin, and Amalia had a good idea what she was looking for in that bottom left drawer — the scotch Grissom kept there that Sylvie had spiked. "What were you doing in Professeur Grissom's office? He is not here, and you do not have his prior consent to be inside."

Sylvie pressed down her skirt as she stood up straight. Although she looked like a woman simply composing herself, Amalia knew Sylvie was merely buying time to produce a logical answer.

Surprisingly, the scheming woman did. "I am looking for the contract Professeur Grissom was to sign." The smile on her face was as wicked as her tone. "I would not be reduced to this if you or he were where you were supposed to be."

Amalia Chauncey was ready to strangle the woman, but as luck would have it, the telephone on her desk rang. She answered with an optimistic greeting: "Bureau du Professeur Grissom, Comment puis-je vous aider?"

While keeping an eye on Sylvie Martin, who had yet to leave Grissom's office, Amalia listened to the man on the other end of the phone line. "Oui Monsieur Morel. Comment allez-vous?"

As the elder professor spoke, Amalia haphazardly wrote notes to keep up with what he was saying. Sylvie had left the office but was lingering in the doorway looking straight at her.

Amalia ended the call, and then directed her attention to Sylvie. "Mademoiselle, if there is nothing else."

"Did Morel speak about how your job is in jeopardy?"

"Pardon?" Amalia couldn't believe the woman.

Sylvie sashayed over to Amalia. "I have spoken to Morel who has said if Grissom doesn't return within the week, with his contract signed, your employment with the Sorbonne — along with the professeur's — will be terminated."

Amalia held her ground and firmly grasped a fine line upon her emotions, especially her anger. "Mademoiselle, there are many things that need to be considered in response of what transpired five days ago."

Sylvie did not contain any of her emotions as she spoke, especially her anger. "What transpired five days ago is none of your business or the business of your husband. Grissom is nothing but a liar and a coward."

"Mademoiselle, I must ask you to leave."

"I leave when I believe I am done."

Amalia quickly went around Sylvie and closed Grissom's office door, making sure it was locked. "Have a good day, mademoiselle."

The snarl on Sylvie's face punctuated the contempt she felt for this "low-level employee." Although she was ready to pounce, a slight knock on door frame near Amalia's desk made Sylvie freeze. She and Amalia saw the provost just outside the office door.

Sylvie left without a word to Amalia and nothing but a short hello to the provost. It was a move that mystified Amalia. _Why wouldn't Sylvie take the opportunity to make a scene and trash Grissom in front of the provost?_

Amalia smiled at her visitor. "Monsieur Sarto. Entrer s'il vous plaît. Que puis-je faire pour vous?

Emil Sarto smiled back and entered the office. The man was small in stature, but his dark, deep eyes reflected his firm, fair-minded authority. "What Mademoiselle said, I'm afraid she might be correct."

The words pierced Amalia. She so wished Grissom was there to protect himself, but Amalia understood why he felt the need to leave. And she knew she would have to protect her boss in his absence. It was something she was willing to do. "Provost, perhaps it is not my place to say, but I do believe that Professeur Grissom was abused by Mademoiselle's actions. And, again it might not be place, but I do not believe Sylvie Martin should be trusted. She was searching his office without permission..."

Sarto put up his hands in surrender. While his tone was kind, the provost spoke honestly. "You do not have to explain, Madam. My apologies, but I observed what transpired here from outside the office." Sarto gestured for Amalia to sit behind her desk while he took a seat on the other side of her. "Madam Chauncey, While I have respect for what you and Denis say and for what Professeur Grissom told me, it is difficult that he is not here. Have you heard from him?"

"No provost," Amalia admitted glumly. "It is possible he is with his wife overseas and out of communication range. But provost, I do hope you will take what Professeur Grissom said as the truth..."

"Amalia, I do believe Professeur Grissom, however Mademoiselle Martin has refused to offer any statement to me in his absence. But that has not stopped her from using her connections to secure insincere and even detrimental sentiment against Professeur Grissom. I do not think I need to warn you of how his reputation is at stake."

"I understand, Monsieur Sarto."

"The professeur spoke about how important it was to return to his wife because of an emergency. And I trust that as the truth. Please know that I will extend to him as much time as I can afford to him," Sarto said, not as a warning, but as a promise, which Amalia knew to be the truth. Sarto stood up from his seat. "However, it does not help him that he is away for so long. It is imperative we contact Monsieur Grissom. If you do communicate with him, would you please alert me?"

"Oui Monsieur," Amalia replied. "Merci, provost."

"Remember, Amalia," Sarto said before leaving. "Time is of the essence."

* * *

Time became an elusive beast for Grissom. He had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been hours; it could have been days. The best thing Grissom could do was keep his mind focused on something, anything. And for the most part, that something would be trying to find a way out of the room.

He burned a slow, deliberate path around the room, continually trying to find a seam for a door. There was one spot that was a good possibility. There had to be something. How else would he have gotten into the room?

Along with checking the walls, Grissom inspected what he believed was a faucet in what he believed was a sink. He hadn't had a drink in a long time. Before he used the toilet, Grissom not only thought about drinking the water there, but standing in it to cool down his body temperature. It was a tactic he saw prisoners in hot Nevada correctional facilities do time and time again.

But what he believed was a toilet was more like one you would find in an airplane — no water in the basin.

The heat didn't let up, and his sweat soaked his clothes, Grissom stripped to his underwear to cool himself and allow his clothes to dry. Because the room was so hot, it didn't take long for the clothes to dry. Sometimes he would put them on just to give him something to do.

Grissom had to keep his mind occupied. He knew hallucinations were terrible consequences of sensory deprivation, and he had already fell victim to them. At odd times, he would hear noises — falling objects, cars passing on the highway, even the thrum of a gas chromatography-mass spectrometer.

While he couldn't see his hand in front of his face, he would feel something crawling on him, sometimes he could even hear the pitter patter of insect legs upon his arms, legs, even his face. When that would occur, he would claw at himself, bat the insects away, even though a part of his brain was screaming, "THERE IS NOTHING THERE! YOU ARE ALONE!"

Then there were the voices. People yelling his name. In terrifying moments, he would hear the the voice of Emilio Alvarado, a man he hadn't thought about for several years. _How long ago was that?_ He said himself. _Warrick was still alive. Sara was gone... the first time._

_I was sick,_ he recalled. _Walking pneumonia. But Maddie Klein ... God what a pain in the ass she was ... she insisted I work._

It turned out to be a case that lingered with him for a while. First there was the explosion while he and Warrick tried to enter an apartment. Then there was the meeting with Emilio Alvarado in his cell, only minutes before he was going to be released. But Grissom pulled his "Get out of jail free" card that the criminal thought he safely tucked away in Dante's Inferno.

Grissom got his man, but not before Alvarado threatened him as he was returned to his jail cell: "Mira, usted se va a morir." Grissom knew enough Spanish to translate those words: Look, you're going to die." As those same words in that same low, evil tone infected his mind, Grissom shuddered from the notion that, like Alvarado, he might never escape this prison cell.

But even more frightening than Alvarado's disembodied threat were the words he would hear Sara say: "GET OUT OF MY LIFE!"; "YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" He would try to silence those words by envisioning treasured moments of Sara, only to have them morph into moments of rage — when they walked along the streets of Paris and he held her in his arms and whispered how he loved her under the glow of the City Lights, she would turn in his arms, her eyes filled with tears as she screamed, "I WISH I NEVER MET YOU! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!" The moment he was in the helicopter holding her hand straining to see if she would open her eyes. She did, and his heart soared, but in this room, she removed her mask and in a raspy voice says, "You did this to me. I don't deserve the pain you give me. Why do you have to hurt me? Leave me. Just leave me."

Those voices left Grissom gripping his head and sobbing. He wished he could see Sara one more time to apologize for everything — the pain he caused her, the years she wasted on him, how he never cherished her and never deserved her.

Many times he would try to sleep just to silence the voices or combat the boredom. He would nod off and then awake with a jolt — each time his heart pounding in his chest and his mind reeling as it tried to process his surroundings — nearly an impossibility in the dark.

One of the first times he awoke, he rolled off the makeshift bed and fell hard on the cement floor. As painful as it was to wake up like that, it was much worse to wake up in the middle of the floor.

That had happened when Grissom was doing another survey around the walls, searching for a way out. The room was stifling — the air thick and hot. There was still no water flowing from the faucet, and just to make sure, Grissom would fumble with handle just to make sure it was open in case water would flow. But none did.

Although Grissom tried to count his steps as he sidled against the walls, his concentration wavered. He dragged his body forward and used the wall hold himself up. He had worn his clothes again, and while he felt overheated, he could no longer sweat because of the lack of fluid in his body. To combat his overwhelming need for water, Grissom's body shut down the mechanism that screamed how thirsty he was.

After hundreds of steps, his body fumbled and pushed off the wall. It caused Grissom to move a couple of steps away from the wall. He put out his arms to try and grope for a wall, a ledge, a toilet an anything so he could figure out which corner of the room he stood.

His breathing became rapid and he could feel the impending anxiety attack. He moved erratically, which compromised his balance. Nauseous and weak from the heat and dehydration, Grissom fell to the floor. He lifted up his head but couldn't fight the waves of dizziness assaulting him. He gripped his head tight to try and stem the dizziness and quiet the voices that filtered in his brain. A chorus of voices talked over each other, muttering nonsense and screaming. Grissom pressed down harder upon his head until a scream escaped his mouth. He didn't know if he fell asleep from exhaustion or passed out.

Nevertheless, at some point he jolted awake. His head and heart pounded simultaneously. Grissom felt around for a wall, but only found the ground. He felt his anxiety rise up again, so he sat up. Grissom placed both hands upon either side of his head and just started a mantra — anything would do, he told himself. "I will get out of here. I will get out of here. I will get out of here. I will get out of here."

* * *

_It hasn't been quite three days, but it is damn close enough to it. He hasn't balled up in a corner... not yet, but I have no idea how many more times this guy can walk around these walls. When he allows himself a task, he just concentrates on it._

_That has been what is abundantly fascinating to me. I wonder if he realizes he hasn't slept more than two or three hours at a time? There are times he might sleep for 20 minutes, and each time he wakes up like he is resurfacing from a dive into the deep sea — gasping for air and unaware of where he is._

_Yet, he tries to calm himself down and take on a task. But it's taking him longer to calm down, and when he does a task — usually walking around and around and around the room — he loses focus quicker and quicker._

_I don't remember working as hard as he does. Even though his energy is down to maybe 10 percent, the son of a bitch is still going._

_But now I'm worried about his health. It's almost been three days. I think it's time I cut him a break. And maybe later, I'll pay him a visit._

* * *

"I will … get out of here. … I ... will get out … of here. I ... will ... get out of here. I ... will … get ... out ..."

He could hear his own voice, even though it was barely above a whisper, was slow and terribly labored. Grissom tried to let the words soothe him, but even concentrating on the mantra made his head pound and some screams in his head become louder.

Then he heard something else. A steady hiss.

He stopped his mantra and focused on the hiss. Was it more noises flitting in his mind? The hiss sputtered then started again.

No, the hiss wasn't from his head. It was concrete. It was real. He stood up and tried to figure out where the hiss was. He turned a few degrees to his right and the moved forward one, short, choppy step at at time. Three steps. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Then he bumped into the sink. "Oh, thank God."

Grissom cupped his hands under the running faucet and immediately drew water into his mouth, ignoring the metallic taste and relishing the feel of the wet liquid going down his throat. He drank handful after handful as his t-shirt became soaked from the run-off.

He stripped off his t-shirt and ran it under the faucet. Over and over, he wiped his head, neck, armpits and chest with the wet shirt. Then he put his head into the basin and cupped water on his scalp. He felt his body temperature lower.

He soaked his shirt a few times, then wrung out the liquid before hanging it on the corner of the basin so it could dry. This was as close to a clean shirt that Grissom would get.

Even though he thought his thirst was satisfied, Grissom continued to drink handfuls of water. He had no idea how long this water supply would last. Which led him to ponder the question — should he turn off the faucet or let it run? If this was not an infinite supply, he could be wasting water if the faucet runs. But without it continuously running, he might miss the opportunity to drink again.

He decided to be cautious. After touring the room God knows how many times, he knew how many steps it was from his makeshift bunk to the sink. He would have to check as often as possible to see if the water was running.

And no longer would he be waking up in the middle of the room. It was paramount that he gauged his energy level better so that he returned to a specific known location in the room in case his energy plummets again. Whether it is on the makeshift bunk, or near the sink and toilet, or at that one spot on the wall where there might be the door seam — those the are the places he could rest and wake.

For now, Grissom turned from the sink and walked the necessary steps to his makeshift bunk. He sat upon it and pressed his bare back to the wall. The temperature in the room started to lower. Maybe his captor was taking pity on him.

Or maybe he was playing some kind of game. Like a game of cat and mouse.

Or maybe it was a game that just involved a "cat." Like Schrödinger's cat.

_That's it,_ Grissom thought to himself. _My captor is Erwin Schrödinger._ As Grissom sat on his makeshift bunk and thought about Schrödinger, he let out a weak laugh.

Schrödinger was the Austrian physicist who developed the thought experiment/paradox. So in his present situation, Grissom was... well... his captor's cat. Based on random acts occurring in a steel cage, is the cat dead or alive or both? Is the cat required to be an observer, or does its existence in a single, well-defined, classical state require another external observer? Those were just some of the quandry's that could be pondered by the paradox created with Schrödinger's cat.

As Einstein wrote to Schrödinger, one cannot get around the assumption of reality — something independent of what is experimentally established. And for some reason, Grissom found that thought insanely amusing. This whole scenario … Grissom in this box without light, without food, with minimal water … it was so completely absurd. It was pointless. What could possibly be gained from this little experiment?

The thoughts kept Grissom occupied for a while, until he shivered violently. After receiving the gift of running water, the temperature in the room changed dramatically. If Grissom could see, he suspected he could see his own breath. Grissom felt chilled to the bone. He put on his socks as soon as he found them, but couldn't put on his shirt since it was still wet.

_God it is so cold_, Grissom thought. Once again, Grissom felt an impending anxiety attack. Sleep seemed an impossibility while he was so cold. So all Grissom could do was calm down and wait.

So he waited. And waited. And waited.

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: Special thanks once again to Chauncey for her help. I hope this was OK. Let me know.


	27. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 26**

As dusk approached on her fourth day in the jungle, Sara could no longer put on the inevitable.

_Stop stalling,_ she admonished herself as she stood in front of the stall of the community toilet. _You have a stick. Use it. Hiss hasn't attacked anyone. Why would he start now?_

_Why?_ Another part of Sara's brain countered. _Because it's a snake. And in the history of the world and the cinema, snakes usually are regarded as evil creatures that will eat your soul and/or portions your lower extremities._

_Jeez,_ she answered herself._ Exaggerate much, Sidle?_

For all the teasing Ramon has gotten for his inability to use the john, Sara didn't look forward to sharing the bathroom with Hiss. Truthfully, she subvertly had done most of her No. 1's in the woods, just as Ramon did. And she got lucky a couple of days ago when she needed to "move some mountains," as Nick would say. Oliver was just leaving the stall when Sara came by. When she indicated she was going in the stall, he beat the walls of the outhouse for extra measure before she entered.

_What a gentleman,_ Sara thought, before taking the quickest shit of her adult life.

But tonight Oliver was nowhere in sight and Sara needed to take care of business. Being "backed up" was simply not healthy, especially in a humid environment where she had to do a lot of physical work.

Taking a deep breath, Sara took one step forward and banged the hell out of the outhouse wall. Then she swiftly opened the door, took a step inside and inspected every corner and crevice for Hiss, a snake she had never met but presumed was nine inches in diameter and seven feet long. Or maybe it was one of those sneaky, skinny snakes that could unhinge its jaw 180 degrees to unleash its razor-sharp teeth.

The door shut behind her loudly, and it startled her but only for a moment. She was certain no snake — fat or otherwise — was in the outhouse. Breathing a sigh of relief she prepared to pull down her pants and begin "moving mountains," but turned around to take a look at the seat.

That's when she noticed the huge tarantula sprawled over the mouth of the make-shift commode.

"Holy shit!" Sara shouted. But despite the surprise, she was more amused than scared. If there is ever a positive to come from her long relationship with Gil Grissom, it was the fact that Sara could deal with certain scary bugs and arachnids — such as impossibly large cockroaches and furry, faux ferocious spiders. She stooped down to stare at the tarantula. It wasn't rearing up its front legs or head as if to pounce, so she felt the spider didn't fear Sara or think she was prey.

Knowing tarantulas don't move much, Sara ever-so-gently nudged the spider with her stick. The soft prompt sparked the animal to move out of a hole at the bottom of one of the stall's corners. Sara was sure the tarantula would find a cozy hole to burrow.

She smiled as she unzipped her pants and sat gingerly on the commode. _That was as good as Gil could do,_ Sara thought.

Then she shook her head in disagreement. _What are you talking about? Gil would have picked up the spider and let it crawl on his arm. He would have classified it and then named it after a Shakespearian character before he had to wipe._

For a moment, Sara wished she could share this moment with him because who else would appreciate this situation better than Gil Grissom?

No doubt he would laugh, that laugh that would probably lead to the snort that she loved to hear. Who would have thought Gil Grissom would snort? But have him listen to a story that combined a tarantulas and toilets, and, oh yeah, he would snort.

For the first time since receiving that awful phone call, Sara thought about her husband with a wistful smile upon her face. As she recognized that fact, Sara could feel her heart become a little lighter.

Despite so much physically strenuous work and mental cataloging that filled her days, Sara suffered through bouts of loneliness at the camp. Vicky was not much of a talker as they worked. And while she would chat with Ramon about the animal and plant life, he seemed less and less enthused about the work as the week went on. Sara had thought perhaps his attitude changed because Vicky now rebuffed his sexual advances.

But it seemed like something more. Sara picked up a vibe from Ramon as if the project itself puzzled him. The few times they worked together today, it seemed as if Ramon wanted to talk with Sara about something. But he would hold his comments when Vicky or Fred or Oliver would pop up.

So Sara didn't really have anyone to share her thoughts as she worked. And no matter how she tried to avoid thinking about Grissom, her mind would conjure up musings of what he would say about the flora and fauna that surrounded her.

Sara had to admit she missed Grissom.

But how could she miss her husband when she still had every right in the world to be mad at him. Yes, her emotions were raw in the airport, but Sara couldn't classify how she treated Grissom as an overreaction.

Sara had been doing last minute packing at the house when the phone rang. She had hoped it might be Gil and she could let him know about the last minute changes on her trip.

But it wasn't him. It was that … bitch. And make no mistake, if some woman calls to say how wonderful it was to be fucked by _your_ husband, it should be justifiable to be … well... livid. Mental reasoning such as, "She's just goading you to have that reaction," goes out the window when a woman tells you how _your_ husband's hard cock feels in _her_ nimble hands. How _your_ husband's mouth feels on _her_ breast.

Damn straight Sara was livid. She had every right to be.

And that Sylvie Martin was such a bitch. The last thing Sara heard before she hung up on that whore was her laughter. In the back of Sara's mind she knew she had fallen victim to her little game, but it didn't diminish the feeling that her husband had betrayed her. _I warned him about her,_ Sara recalled, as she she cleaned herself with the wipes she brought with her. _He should have been more careful. Why did he put himself be put in a position that would allow him to accept her advances? Is that what he wanted? A French whore to fuck?_

That wasn't the Gil Grissom she knew, the Gil Grissom she married. Or so Sara thought. _Maybe he had changed._

_But why?_ Sara thought as she pulled up her pants. _What happened between them that allowed him to have sex with that woman and then get on a plane and fly home?_

She had no answer to that, because the scenario seemed so implausible.

_And,_ she offered thoughtfully. _You never even asked him, "Why?"_

She might not have tried at the airport, but she did try after that phone call. After pacing the house while gnawing at her nails for about a half hour after Sylvie's call, Sara got the nerve to phone Grissom in Paris. But when she heard his voice on the machine — "Bonjour. Vous avez bien joint Gil Grissom. Merci de laisser un message..." — all she could think about was Gil speaking French to that whore; that whore speaking his name in that French accent. Sara hung up before the message even finished.

Then she stood in her bedroom feeling betrayed and shellshocked. God, she truly despised that Sylvie Martin. And that hatred dripped upon her feelings for her husband.

That's the moment Sara regarded her trip with the Hawthorne Committee as a blessing. It allowed her to just get on a plane and leave. Leave their home and leave any place that offered memories of the man who had just ripped her heart out.

And what happens? He finds her while on a layover in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. The two of them had suffered from bouts of "Severe Bad Timing Syndrome" for so long in their relationship, but that moment was simply ridiculous. You take away that whore's phone call, and that moment would have been one of blissful serendipity. Instead, seeing him immediately transported her back in their bedroom where her emotions were angry and raw. His sudden appearance out of freakin' nowhere was an affront to all the justifiable anger that Sara had for him.

_That's why I reacted the way I did,_ she thought to herself. _I had to do that to him just to get him out of my face and out of my life._

Standing up in the stall, Sara froze as her mind voiced questions she never thought about till now. _But what if I never saw him at the airport and he came home to an empty house? Would he have been worried about me? Waited for me? And if he did, would he tell me about what happened? He seemed to want to explain, but I didn't give him the chance._

_He didn't deserve a chance,_ she heard herself explain.

But another thought struck her. _OK, if you wouldn't let him explain, then how would you have approached him about what happened? Would you have asked him why? I mean, at some point you would have returned to Vegas and seen him, right? Or would you have..._

Her wistful smile gone, Sara didn't dare finish that last thought. She felt dizzy as stood with her hand on the makeshift, wood door handle. _Did I just overreact and run away from our problems and make things worse?_

"Sara?! Is that you in there?"

Ramon's voice broke Sara out of her trance. "Uh... yeah. I'm coming out." Sara pushed on the door to open it, only to find resistance on the other side.

"NO! Wait!" Ramon yelled.

"Wait? Why?" Sara asked. "Ramon? Let me open the door."

"Is it in there?"

Sara rolled her eyes at the comment. "If it was in here, would it make sense for me be to in here?"

"No offense, babe, but not a lot makes sense around here," Ramon said.

"Why are you asking?" Sara asked, continuing to push on the door. "You said you'd never use the outhouse."

"Do you know what the effects of Metopium toxiferum, commonly known as the chechen tree, can have on your skin?"

"Ramon, I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm coming out."

Sara heard Ramon offer a big sigh. "You ever get poison ivy on your ass?"

Sara made a painful face. "Ouch."

"Yeah."

"No, Ramon, the snake is not in here."

"OK. OK," Ramon said, obviously trying to calm himself down. "I can do this."

Sara knew he was trying to pep himself up. For all the posturing and sexual innuendos the man threw, Ramon was an intelligent researcher who was terrified by slithery things. "Tell you what, Ramon. You bang on the walls while I come out. You pop in here, and I'll stick around and make sure Hiss doesn't get back in here."

"Seriously?" Ramon asked, his voice full of hope. "You'd do that?"

"Yeah. I'll even leave my wipes."

"God, I think I love you," Ramon said.

"That's wonderful," Sara replied sarcastically. "Now, on three. you bang on the walls and I'll come out."

Sara counted down and heard loud banging on the walls. She exited the stall, and in a flash, Ramon was inside.

"You still there?" Ramon asked in a meek voice.

"Yes, Ramon," Sara replied in a very motherly tone. She extracted a travel-size hand sanitizer bottle from her pocket and put a dollop of the gel on her hands.

"Is it somewhere around there?"

Sara rubbed the sanitizer in her hands. "Ramon, please hurry up and poop."

"Don't break my concentration with your sexy talk."

Sara laughed as she slowly paced around. Two or three minutes later, Ramon emerged from the stall. As he handed her the package of her wipes, she offered some of her gel. "I am deeply indebted to you."

"You're welcome," Sara replied with a smile.

Ramon rubbed the gel in his hands and looked at Sara. "You know, if you ever want to talk about stuff, maybe get a guy's point of view, I don't mind listening."

The comment caught Sara off-guard. "What do you mean?"

"I know you got a lot of your mind and it's not like this place has been a walk in the park."

"I'm not the one with poison ivy on my ass," Sara said, hoping to sidestep the conversation.

Ramon smiled. "It was from a chechen tree, and I really need some Gumbo Limbo bark. But, seriously, babe, it sucks to have a cloud of a relationship hanging over you, and it only makes it worse when you're in a dump like there where nothing is going right."

"This place isn't that bad..."

"Sara," Ramon said succinctly. "You are too smart to be saying that. The camp is a dump and I know I can't be the only person who suspects that the research we are finding simply doesn't prove anything definitive about invasive species like the grant outlines. If anything, we're proving the grant hypothesis wrong."

"Well, we don't much more time here and it's possible we might find something different in the next few days..."

Knowing she was changing the subject, Ramon interrupted her. "You seem to be hurting about something that happened far away from here," Ramon said. "Before you walk away from me, I just want you to know, if you want to talk, I'll listen."

Sara turned to leave, but stopped. "I'm … how hard is it to find that Limbo Stick tree?"

"It's Gumbo Limbo."

"Whatever you say," Sara chuckled. "If you need it tonight, I'll help you look, unless you are going to find Vicky."

"Vicky?" Ramon said walking beside Sara. "I am persona non grata with her after I tried to discuss the previous teams' documentation."

"You questioned the other teams' findings?"

"I questioned the inconsistencies in the documentation," Ramon said. "Someone went over the notes with a liberal amount of white out, and the whole tone and structure of what was written over the original notes made no sense."

"You think someone was tampering with the documentation?" Sara asked. "You didn't accuse Vicky of anything, did you?"

"No. Hell no. You think I'm stupid or something," Ramon said. "Although, it probably wasn't something to bring up immediately after … you know."

"Ah," Sara said.

"But it wasn't like I was saying the project is a waste, I was just asking why the documentation was changed."

"What did she say?"

"Get the hell out."

"So discussion closed?"

Ramon shook his head. "With her and Fred, yes, but if you're willing to listen..."

Sara nodded her head. "Let's get some flashlights. We'll talk while we look for the bark."

"OK," Ramon said. "Does this mean you'd be will to apply the bark to my rash?"

"Um. No," Sara said. "But Oliver can be helpful at times."

"God, you're a cruel woman," Ramon said as he playfully nudged Sara with his shoulder.

They split up to grab their lights from their tents. As Sara stepped inside her, she saw Vicky putting lotion on her legs. "Hey Sara. Getting your shower stuff?"

"No," Sara said as she looked in her backpack. "I'll come back for that later." Finding her light, she flashed it on the tent thin, cloth wall, which immediately drew bugs to the circle. Sara turned off the light and retrieved another item — Deep Woods Off — and left the tent with a "See ya."

Sara saw Ramon approach the tent as she exited, his own light in his hand. Sara started to apply some of the bug repellant, and offered it to Ramon. "Don't worry I got protection."

"Well, let's go," Sara said. "Tell me about those notes."

****Ramon didn't want anyone to hear their conversation, so he leaned in close to Sara as he talked to her. As they walked away with their lights, they didn't notice that Fred stood outside Vicky's tent and witnessed the two of them meeting and leaving together.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: This chapter was going to continue, but it just got too long, so I am posting this part now and I'll have the next chapter up in a day or two. We have to see how Grissom and his captor are doing. Thank for taking the time to read.


	28. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI. Oh... or Finding Nemo

* * *

**CHAPTER 27**

_The first time I went into his cell I just sat like a bird on a perch watching him. The room was cold, which was fine for me because I was in a long sleeve shirt and pants, both that clung snug to my body. I don't know why I was dressed in black; it's not like he could see me. I suppose it was more for my benefit than his. Sporting my night vision goggles with my black outfit, I felt like a spy and a cat burglar at the same time. _

_He had a hard time sleeping because of the room's cold temperature. I could see his body flinch and spasm from the chills. Instead of sleeping, he'd sit down and try to stay as still as possible, as if he was in a calm, cool and collected position. I have no clue what he would do as he sat. I guess he would just sit and think._

_Sure, he would whip his head around like something bothered him or he might look around the room and you could tell he was just straining to hear or even see something. But for the most part, he would take these deep breaths and just sit. He would fidget and I would think he might have some kind of meltdown, and then... then he would breath and breath and calm down._

_I'm not going to lie, after witnessing this a couple of times, it pissed me off. I never found that kind of … calm focus. I remember mumbling to myself a lot and just feeling like this oppressive weight on my chest. And if I didn't get out of that room, that weight would crush me and leave me drowning in my own filth. _

_And there he was focused and calm, beating the anxiety before it could take hold of him. I should have found it fascinating, and I did find it fascinating as I sat up there watching him from my little perch._

_But then it would just gnaw at me, like this Grissom guy was mocking the pain I went through when I was held captive. Like he was screaming at me, "Look what I can do! I'm better than you!"_

_I wondered if any of Landry's other victims did that. Were they ever able to hold it together and keep the oppressive weight of anxiety at bay? Or was this stupid son-of-a-bitch something special?_

_What am I saying? It's not that he's any special. He's no better than me. I had Landry to deal with. Landry — he was the reason I couldn't keep any focus. That sick bastard came into my cell and would say shit and do things to me so I couldn't EVER find a focus. _

_Of course this Grissom can sit down and focus like some kind of yoga master. He doesn't have to deal with the constant goading and prodding and maniacal ramblings of a guy like Landry. This cell is a fuckin' walk in the park compared with what I had to go through. _

_And with that, I went from being a spy-like cat burglar to be … well... a puppetmaster. _

* * *

_Sitting down just isn't helping, _Grissom thought to himself as he continually rubbed his forehead and temples. The chill in the room made sleep so difficult. Although weak from a lack of food, he felt the overwhelming need to move around. Perhaps the movement and circulation will raise his body temperature enough to allow him to sleep.

Grissom started his now ever-so-familiar sojourn around his cell. Along with keeping his body temperature up, Grissom hoped the repetitive route around the room would keep his mind from wandering too far from reality. Clinging on the wall of the cell physically kept his mind tethered to the here and now function of simply putting one front in front of the other. _Think of nothing else, _he would tell himself. _Do not stray beyond the mental boundaries of circling the room._

One step became two, became 20, became 100s. In his mind, he borrowed the words from Dory in Finding Nemo: _Just keep walking. Just keep walking. What do we do? We walk._

Grissom sadly laughed at himself. He wondered if he was on the cusp of his own sanity.

* * *

_Before my "change in plans," I got to know Sara Sidle a little bit, thanks to a cyber trip through the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Various e-mails from her personal and work account filled some gaps for me as well. Thank God for computers. They've make people's lives so … transparent._

_But I had scant information about this Grissom, which was fine at the beginning of this experiment because I thought the anonymous nature of his captor would mirror mine. Now that we are passed the mark of the amount of time I stayed in a cell and after seeing how he could keep his anxiety at bay, I find myself seeking to know more about this man. What were his triggers? There had to be something that pushed him over the edge. _

_I knew he worked at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, since he was the one who formulated the theory about me in the first place and his wife said so in that interview. But nothing there gave me much than a curriculum vitae. I could wade through case file after case file, but I didn't think that would give me the answer I was looking for. _

_Relationships create a lot of triggers, so I went back to Sara's e-mail. That would give me his email address or addresses and I would be able to get a glimpse into their relationship._

_As I scanned the bevy of read and unread e-mails in both their accounts, I realized it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the two of them were drifting apart. I found some older e-mails that were long-winded recounts of what each other did in a day, followed by replies saying how much they missed each other. He would quote everything from Aristotle to Carl Sagan, and she loved to use all caps when she was extremely mad or tired or excited._

_But as time passed, the emails became less frequent and spoke about glossed over moments over the course of a week. Then the correspondence evolved in two or even one paragraphs. "Tried to call you, but you must have been a scene. Hope you are safe. - G" Or: "Did a double shift today and was exhausted when I got home. Sorry I didn't return your call. I SOOOO need sleep. Have you and Amalia worked on the project some more? Love ya."_

_And lately, she hadn't sent him an email in almost three weeks._

_His email was pretty boring. A lot of stuff in French. Even when I translated them, it was all academic boredom that didn't offer much. His email address at work seemed to be totally dedicated to work stuff. _

_And the personal one? Standard yahoo address. Doesn't even automatically save the sent items. But he generally only had emails from Sara, so I was betting any of his sent correspondence was sitting in her inbox. _

_That's where I found what I was looking for. Grissom hadn't sent Sara an e-mail in a while, but there was one waiting for her that he sent the day he and I met. And it was a doosy._

_It would seem that Grissom got caught being a naughty boy, and felt really guilty about it. He didn't say exactly what happened (or didn't happen, by the tone of his apology), but she must have found out about it and he was just begging her forgiveness: _"Few moments pass when I am not thinking of you, not reminded of you, not yearning for you. Even as we have drifted from one another these past few months, you always safely and permanently reside in my soul."

_Heartfelt sentiment. I guess. He could have just been bullshitting her. Stringing her along. He was her supervisor at some point in their relationship. I'm guessing they probably were fucking around behind everybody's back, so what would stop them from fucking behind each others' backs? _

_I really couldn't give a shit. It's like punching code. I got my trigger — his infidelity against the woman who "permanently resides in his soul." Now I needed to use that to unlock Grissom's safe of sanity and mentally break him down just as Landry broke me. That Grissom... I know he's not better than me, or smarter than me, or stronger than me. I just have to treat him as brutally as Landry treated me._

_It's not like I wanted to do it. Although, honestly, I'm curious to see if I could do as good of a job as Landry._

* * *

Grissom continued to roam around the room, but that exercise began to frustrate him. He leaned heavily against the wall, and tried to catch his breath. Despite shivering, he felt sweaty and spent. Once again, the threat of an anxiety attack loomed, and Grissom fought the urge to collapse and let it happen.

He grunted as he stood straight up and closed his eyes. _Deep breaths. One. Two. Three. Deep breaths. I will get out of here. I will get out of here._

He repeated his mantra over and over in his head. Every once in awhile, a single word of the mantra would escape his lips and he could hear his own soft, labored voice. He tried not to think about how weak he was. Instead he focused on ways to keep his spirit strong. _I will get out of here. I will get out of here._

With another deep breath, Grissom took a step forward and another until he reached the sink. He noticed the air seemed thicker, a bit warmer. He turned 90 degrees and gingerly took one step, two steps, three steps forward, allowing his leg to touch the raised platform. He held his head in his hands to steady an attack of dizziness. _I will get out of here. I will get out of here._

"Your actions remind me of something Einstein said."

Grissom jumped at hearing that disembodied voice come out of nowhere. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest. The surprise of hearing someone somewhere in the room took his breath away, but he found his voice, weak and labored, and asked, "Who's there?"

"Wasn't it Einstein who said insanity is the act of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?"

Grissom whipped his head to the other side. The voice sounded like it came from behind him. "Who are you?

"That's what you're doing, you know, doing the same thing over and over and over." Sarcasm dripped from the disembodied voice. "Why do you even bother?"

The voice now sounded like it was in front of Grissom. He could even feel the extra body heat in the room. _Why do I do this? To tether myself to some kind of reality and somehow convince myself that at some point I will no longer be in this goddamn room._

That's what Grissom wanted to say. But the shock and his lack of energy only allowed him short sentences. "Why am I here?"

There was no answer to his question, and the room turned deathly quiet. The only sound Grissom heard was his own heavy breathing.

After a while in the silence, Grissom couldn't even be sure if someone was still in the room with his captor. Another chill took over Grissom's body and he knew sleep would evade him. Anxiety hit him again. _He's watching me. He's still here. What do I do? What is he going to do?_ Grissom banged the heel of his palm against his head to silence the loud, anxious voice.

He sat down, only to stand up again. He started to bounce on one foot and then the other. _He's watching me. What does he want from me? Why does he want me here? Is he going to kill me? _Those words floated his head and Grissom banged upon his own head once again. _Don't do this to yourself, dammit. Calm down. Flex. Breath. _

He took his own advice, took a deep breath and moved in short steps. He started his route around the room once more. _I have to keep focused on the task in front of me_, he thought. _I will get out of here._

* * *

_I stayed in that room with that Grissom for hours on end. The first time after I talked to him, I thought I had him. I thought he would break. _

_But I've got to hand it to him. He kept it together. Calmed himself before the anxiety got the best of him._

_I stood completely silent and watched him. I could imagine what was going on in his mind. He was probably questioning whether I was even still in the room with him. Or maybe he was wondering what was my next move._

_That's what it was like for me. And it drove me …_

_This Grissom guy... he needs more pressure put on him. I'm being too soft on the guy — that's the difference between him and me. Landry put insane pressure on me. _

_He did so many circles around the room before I spoke again. When I said to him, _Are you thinking about her?_ He jumped like a jolt of electricity coursed through his body. Before he could speak, I walked around him and taunted him. _

Like you have the right to think about her. ... You were such a bastard to her. … You don't deserve her. … But you know that, don't you? … You're a really piece of work. … You wronged her but she won't forgive you. ... Not this time.

_I taunted him over and over. He would stop, sometimes to yell out "STOP!" Sometimes he would try to regain some control over his emotions. I was obviously hitting some sore spots. I could see him bite back sobs. Other times he would do that thing where he bangs his forehead with the heel of his palm. That's when I knew I might have him._

_But then he would mutter something, stand up a bit straighter and just start walking again._

_So I kept the pressure on and continued with the taunts. _She's probably glad you're in here being punished. … She's better off without you. … After what you did to her, you deserve this. … You did such a trashy thing. ... She probably thinks of you like you're garbage. … There is no forgiveness for someone like you...

_Between moments of restlessness and his slow movement, I would offer him those words of discouragement, if you will. According to the digital display within my night vision goggles, this exercise went on for six hours. There were times he slid down the wall, exhausted, and for a moment I would feel some sympathy for him. He would try to sleep, but he was so restless it just wouldn't come. I know what that feels like. So many times he would smack his forehead to get himself to calm down. He would breath. He would mutter something that I couldn't hear, but I'm sure echoed loudly in his subconscious._

_But me? I would sit down in the middle of the room, perfectly able to stay calm and still in wait. It is funny how time affected me as opposed to how it affected him. We both had all the time in the world, but while my senses were immersed in a reality I could tell truly existed, all he could do was suffer through time, not truly knowing if seconds, minutes or hours passed by, not knowing if anything he sensed was something true or a figment of his imagination._

_The fascination of watching Grissom began to wear off. In its place laid frustration. His reactions didn't change despite my increased efforts to goad him. It made me angry as I watched him calm himself and breath and focus. Sure, when I was in my room I was able to do that, but after so much time and pressure the ability to do that left me. But that ability hasn't left him yet. Why was he still able to emerge from that fog? _

_I needed to change my strategy. Yes. I needed to break that fourth wall. I waited for him to take a rest against the wall and stood rather close to him. _

Worthless, _I said to him._ It's as if you're simply worthless.

_And to punctuate my point I gave him a swift kick to the lower back. He cried out in pain and grabbed his lower back. _

I bet she'd agree you deserve every minute of this punishment, _I said as I used my other leg and kicked him hard in the stomach. All that Tai Chi seemed to be paying off for me. _

_He crouched low to the ground and put his hands in surrender. I just stepped away and stood perfectly quiet and still. The two of us were like that for 27 minutes. _

_But his knees could only stay in that position for so long and his arms seemed heavy with fatigue. Seeing him struggle to get up, I approached him quickly and said, _What? Sara wasn't a good enough fuck? … You had to find someone else?

_And before he could rise up, I kicked him soundly in the face._

_That pissed him off. And I don't think it was the kick in the face that made him angry; it was what I said about Sara. He got up quickly and started walking again. Talking crudely agitated him. So, naturally, I did it even more. _

So tell me, are French women as naughty as they say? _He was beginning to take each step super slow. _

You getting hard thinking about that other bitch? _He stopped and started to breath very, very hard. There was no more shock on his face. But a lot of anger. _

I've seen Sara. So reserved. So clinical. … Is that why you did it? Got the urge to fuck a woman who wasn't like a robot?

_Code broken. That did it. When he charged in my direction, I could feel the smile on my own face as I stepped out of the way, and tripped him. As he tried to get his bearings while he laid on the floor, I put my body flush against the wall he had previously hugged against. I waited until he had caught his breath and cleared his senses a bit before I spoke again. I wanted this sentence to truly count.  
_

Wow, Sara must be a sweet ride. Maybe I should give her a try?

_It didn't surprise me that he charged straight at me. Of course, he missed me and, instead, he slammed hard into the wall. He didn't knock himself out, but he fell to the ground holding his head. I wasn't sure if it was because he hurt it so bad against the wall, or because he couldn't silence the painful voices in his head._

_Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you. That adage simply doesn't apply here in this room. _

* * *

Grissom's head pounded. Even though there was silence in the room, his captor's voice echoed in his head. But that man's words intermingled with the images and voices that continued to sap Grissom's remaining energy. Visions of the moment he realized he was with Sylvie and not Sara; the look of pity and shame Amalia gave him when she came to his house; the look of hurt and malice upon Sara's face in the airport.

"She would agree you deserve every ounce of your pain."

Grissom could feel his captor's breath on his neck as the man whispered in his ear again. Too weak to strike, Grissom could only try to scoot away.

"Where are you going? To circle the room again one inch at a time?"

"Stop," Grissom said weakly. "Stop."

But his captor wouldn't. He continued to speak to Grissom in his ear. His captor's venomous comments fueled Grissom's own self-damning thoughts.

"She has no use for you now." … _I can hear Sara saying those words to me: Get the hell out of my life! _

"You shattered her trust. You betrayed her and I'm sure she hates you." … _She called me a fucking bastard. Her angry and hurt tone still chills me to the the core._

"She left you because doesn't love you anymore." … _She did leave me. Oh God, she left me again. What if it is for good this time? Third time's a charm. She's left me. Oh God, I've lost her. _

Grissom tried to stand up. In his mind he screamed the need to find Sara, but only soft, disjointed words left his mouth. "If … I must... find her."

"Find her?" The maniacal laughter pierced Grissom. "Do you really think she wants you to find her?!"

The captor grabbed Grissom off the floor and threw him away from the wall. He then shouted in Grissom's ear: "YOUR NOTHING BUT A TWO-TIMING FUCKING BASTARD!"

"NO!" Grissom shouted back, holding his head. "STOP!"

This time his captor stood behind Grissom's crumbled body and spoke rapidly just over his head. "You know she hates you. Probably always will. She's somewhere far away and probably found another man. A better man. One who would never treat her the way you did. One who will make her forget all about you, and your sad, pathetic existence."

Grissom closed his eyes tight and put both hands over his ears. _He's right. She's gone. Forever. She said she'd never forgive me. I've ruined us. Without her I'm dead inside. _ He screamed and banged both hands against his head. He got up and whipped himself around. He had no idea where he was in that room.

"You betrayed her. She hates you. You abused her. When she finally forgets about you, you'll be powerless to find her." The captor spoke so rapidly, he could utter those phrases twice in one minute. Something he did minute after minute after minute.

He couldn't escape from those words. Grissom screamed and ran forward, stopping only when his body smashed painfully against the wall. He staggered away from the it, but he could still hear the captor's voice buzzing in his ear. The words were dizzying and now his words morphed into Sara's voice: _You betrayed me. I hate you. You abused me. I've forgotten about you."_

"NOOOO!" The pain in Grissom's mind superseded the physical pain he suffered, and he ran forward, slamming himself again against the wall. He collapsed upon the floor, but the buzzing didn't cease. His captor's words sounded like a jumbled, auditory mess. Grissom got on his hands and knees. _End this! _he screamed to himself. _There's no hope here or outside this cell! Without her you're nothing. He's right. She's gone. End this now._

He tried to get up and fell back on his hands and knees. He couldn't stop his body from shaking. _Just slam your head into the floor! As hard as you can. You're dead without her. DO IT! DO IT, YOU COWARD!_

Resigned to his fate and wanting nothing than to cease the voices in his head, Grissom took a deep breath. But as he did, a smell, ever so slight but definitely present, permeated his senses. It was a fragrance he hadn't smelled in years.

Then he heard another voice filter in his subconscious.

"Grissom. Don't do this man."

Grissom lifted his head, but otherwise couldn't move. "Wha..."

"Stop, Griss, please. You don't have to give up."

The deep, baritone voice sounded both soothing and familiar. Grissom closed his eyes and felt a tear slide down his cheek.

"Warrick?"

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: I know this was a tough chapter to read (not a joy to write either). Thanks so much for reading. And if you want to let me know what you think, reviews, comments, criticisms are appreciated.


	29. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI

* * *

**CHAPTER 28**

I couldn't stop staring at him as he was doubled over on the floor. Thanks to that Grissom, I had just witnessed the reason why most of Landry's victims took their own lives. He broke them down to an absolute vulnerable state and the pressure was so great, they opted to end their life rather than fight for it any longer.

Of course, this time it wasn't Landry who broke that Grissom's code. It was me. I tapped into the central system that controlled his well-being and crushed him mentally. I accomplished that delicate task, not Landry.

Damn, this room is becoming uncomfortably hot. A wave of nausea is hitting me. Deep breath. I think I've been in this room for too long. Must be low blood sugar or something.

I thought about leaving but... I didn't know if I should wait to watch him die or leave him there to die truly alone. It's not like I want to witness him killing himself... I mean, honestly, who would want to witness someone slam his head into the floor until he was unconscious or dead?

Only a madman would want to witness that.

Yeah. Only a madman would want that. A madman like Landry. Now I have these... I guess it's feelings of sympathy that are rolling off me in waves. It doesn't matter that I can't hear his mumbling or envision words forming in his subconscious; I could tell he was weighing his options — stay alive in this hellhole or die by his own hand in this hellhole.

Terrible options. Just terrible. I faked my own death, but I've often wondered if Landry didn't drag me out of that room would I have killed myself to escape that room?

And here I am standing here while someone weighs those very options. I mean, I suppose I have the answer to the questions I had when I started this experiment. Right? So I should feel — a sense of completion, right?

But really what I feel now is... I don't know, I feel absolutely numb.

My head is hurting. I need to get out of this room. Should I leave through the electronic wall door I put in when I designed the room? Or should I leave the way I came? Jump on the rungs at the top of the wall and climb through the ceiling panel.

Wait a minute. What the hell is he doing?

Something has shifted in him. Why is he lifting up his head like that? It's like ... like something's clicked in his mind.

He just said something ... like a single word. His face took a beating, so his speech is slurred and soft. But I dammit, I'm pretty sure he said, "war." Was he at war with himself or with me? What the hell is he thinking about. He's lifting up his left arm like he is reaching up for something. What the hell could he be reaching for? The wall?

He's raised himself onto his knees. I can hear his slow, labored breathing. His mouth is moving, but I can't decipher what he is saying.

What the hell? Now, he's standing up and he reaching out his left arm again. But it doesn't look like he's groping for the wall. It's almost like he's hanging onto something.

He's controlled his breathing. He always does that when he's calmed himself. Dammit. I want to get a better look at his face.

He's in pain, but why does it seem like he's broken through that fog... that fog of confusion? He saying something over and over again, but all I can decipher is a single word: Out.

War. Out. Sounds like he still wants to fight to get out of here.

Goddamn it. He's done it again. He found some a light at the end of this hellhole tunnel. How the hell could he do that? He spent his last shred of sanity when he threw himself against that wall, not once, not twice but three goddamn times. There should be no way he could have found clarity after I stranded him in a maze of his own damaging thoughts. No way.

How the hell did I become the lost one? Why the hell am I standing here in control and still feel like I'm the one who's confused?

I'm watching him take slow, calculated steps back to his mattress roll, and I'm dumbstruck. He's sitting down on the platform with his back against the wall. He's shaking his head from time to time and muttering some words, but it just seems like his stress and pressure is going away. He's not banging the heel of his palm against his head like he does when he got anxious. He doesn't look confused. He kind of looks like he's in a state of disbelief. Probably disbelief that he was still alive because he didn't bust open his skull.

God I feel sick again. Light-headed. Uncomfortable in my own skin. My eyes on glued on that Grissom as I witness him surviving.

Well, that was the point of this exercise. Like Landry said, it is people who are strong, passionate, driven, and not by greed or lust, but by a sense of good, who might define what makes a survivor a survivor.

Then why the hell am I so goddamn pissed off at this guy? As I watch this Grissom sit in front of me, oblivious of me... ignoring me... mocking me... I can just feel my sympathy for him fade away. And in its place...

Dammit. I feel so goddamn nauseous. I can feel the bile rising in my throat. I need to get out of this room. I need to stop staring at him and leave.

* * *

"I'm here, Grissom."

Warrick's voice reverberated in Grissom's head. It brought solace to Grissom's aching mind and body. When he first heard the voice, he reached up to try to touch him. It almost felt as if Warrick was there for him, helping Grissom get from the floor to the platform where his bedroll was set.

In those moments, a feeling of companionship lit up his dismal heart. But as he heard the voice now, Grissom simply could not reconcile the presence of his dead, beloved friend. To hear Warrick — no matter how it comforted his soul — meant Grissom was losing his mind. "Not ... here," Grissom said as he sat on his mattress roll. His voice labored and sad. "You ... can't ... be."

"Stay strong."

Grissom's made a sound, a combination of a chuckle and a sob. "Why?"

"To get back to Sara."

Grissom shook his head. "Doesn't ... want ... me."

"Not true, man."

Grissom gazed upward and tried to control his breathing. He could no longer fight fatigue. "Sara... gone."

"You'll find her."

Grissom shook his head again. "Pointless."

"No way, man. Be strong."

Grissom put a tired hand over his face. He thought to himself how crazy he was. Here he was in a desperate situation with no visible way out conversing with a man who died in his arms some four years ago. _It's happened,_ he thought to himself._ I've become insane._

Yet, Warrick's voice continue to soothe Grissom. He couldn't deny how he no longer felt absolutely alone. _Even if I am crazy, I don't want to be alone,_ Grissom thought. So he carried on his conversation with Warrick. "Sara... came back ... for you... funeral."

"Yeah," Warrick replied, his voice sounding reflective, almost sad. "But she came back for you, not just me."

Grissom closed his eyes, his mind reliving the moment he stepped into his office and finding her here. How he felt so safe and warm in her arms after being apart for so long. He longed for her. Longed for her embrace.

But he shook his head vigorously. Sara's words echoed loudly in his mind: _"You fucked her. I can't forgive that."_

"Hates ... me." Grissom could barely get the two words out of his mouth because it was such a painful thought.

"No, Griss. Give her time," Warrick answered.

All Grissom could do was shake his head in the negative.

"You'll get out of here."

"Don't ... know"

"He did. You will, too."

The last comment gave Grissom pause. Although he couldn't see anything, he shut his eyes tight. The rooms walls seem to close in on him. He knew he didn't possess the strength to continue. How much longer could he go on? "Tired."

"Rest, Griss," Warrick's tone lulled Grissom. "Rest."

Grissom left his seated position and curled up on the mattress role. "Truth... Sara," he said before closing his eyes. If he ever got out of that room, he knew he would tell Sara the truth about what happened in Paris. _It feels like it happened a lifetime ago,_ he thought.

He laid there still and quiet for several moments. He could no longer tell minutes from hours. Simply moments. But after a while of just listening to his own breathing, Grissom could no longer hear Warrick's voice.

_Sleep_, he thought to himself. _I need sleep to heal._

Before the older man succumbed to much-needed sleep, he heard another sound. Even in his weakened state, he made sure to catalog the heavy clicking sound in his subconscious.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Reviews, comments are appreciated. I had a lot more to this chapter, but at the last minute I decided to break it up. That means the next chapter will be up shortly. Thanks so much for taking the time to read.


	30. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 29**

After finishing his bottle of milk, young Aloisio Chauncey desperately wanted something to munch on. And just out of his reach were his crackers. He reached as far as his little arms could go, stretched and wiggled his fingers hoping he could grasp a corner of the bite-sized goodness.

But, alas, he could not stretch far enough.

Seeing his bottle on its side, he took it and rolled it toward the crackers, hoping the bottle would hit the crackers and move them closer. But all the bottle did was rest on top of the crackers.

Well, that wasn't supposed to happen at all.

Aloisio tried stretching again, first as much as he could with his right arm. Then as much as he could with his left arm. Tiny grunts escaped his mouth. Boy, he was trying hard.

He glanced up towards his mama and grunted a little harder to get her attention. But she wasn't looking at him. Couldn't she see the dire predicament he was in? He could not reach the crackers, the crackers obviously were not going to come to him and he couldn't even do the "Oops, I dropped my bottle" routine to get her attention because it was resting on the crackers.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

"MAMA!" Aloisio screamed on the top of his lungs, jolting his mother from her thoughts.

"Aloi! Qu'est-ce-qui ne va pas?" Amalia said, as she asked her child urgently what's wrong.

With an innocent look on his face, Aloisio stretched his arm again in the direction of his crackers and grunted for dramatic effect. "Mama?"

Amalia sighed in relief. Her stress had been mounting for the past few days. Her hormones were in full swing, her job was in flux and her boss was not answering his calls or emails. "Je suis désolée mon fils," she said, apologizing to her son and bringing his crackers into his reach.

"Merci," the toddler said, garnering a loving rub and kiss upon his head from Amalia. To add to her good graces, he popped a cracker in his mouth and added. "Fesseur tank."

Amalia smiled at her son, who was telling his mother how Professeur Grissom would say, "thank you" in English. "Oui, Aloi. Le professeur dirait 'thank you.'"

Aloisio smiled at his mother. "Fesseur."

"Professeur," Amalia corrected.

Aloisio screwed up his face, then quickly put a cracker in his mouth before repeating. "Fesseur."

"Petit coquin," Amalia said before kissing her son again on the head.

She checked her watch — 7:15 a.m. Normally she would be preparing to dress for work, but she had a tough time getting motivated this morning. Today would be the sixth day since Grissom had spoken to the provost at the Sorbonne and then left for America. Other than an email Grissom had sent her when he first arrived at Vegas, Amalia had heard nothing from him.

There were no answers to the five messages she left on his home answering machine, nor to the five matching messages on his cellular voice mail. There have been several emails, and she has received zero replies from him. His lack of response worried her. With the volume of requests Amalia had left, at the very least she believed he would somehow reply to her, "Enough with the messages already!"

She could try his landline and cellular again, but she had a feeling she would only get the same results. She could hear the voice of the Professeur offering a quip to describe Amalia's actions: "It was Einstein who said insanity is the act of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." He would have that mischievous, know-it-all grin on his face and Amalia would roll her eyes at him.

"What is insanity is you not calling me back, Professeur," Amalia mumbled to no one in particular.

As she watched her son reach for another cracker, Amalia thought about the alternatives to not being able to reach Grissom. _He could be staying with a friend. But then why wouldn't he answer his cellular or emails? The friend could be in an area where there is no cellular towers or Internet access. Las Vegas is in the middle of the desert. Professeur had told me stories of being on crime scenes in the middle of nowhere._

Or, perhaps, he was with his wife somewhere in Nicaragua. Amalia had left two messages with Madam Grissom's cellular voice mail, and it would be understandable if her phone did not function in the jungle. Although the Professeur said before he left they should be able to stay about a day and a half together before she left on her trip, he didn't mention the organization affiliated with her travels. If he did, she could try to contact Madam Grissom through those organization's channels.

She hoped the couple were together. The Professeur had left Paris with such a heavy weight of guilt. Amalia had no doubt that he would tell his wife about his transgression, but she hoped he would also tell her about the awful tactics Sylvie Martin used to lure him into her trap. But Amalia also hoped Madam would give him the chance to explain.

As a wife herself, Amalia could only imagine the emotional pain of hearing her husband confess such a breach of trust. But Sylvie's involvement cannot be ignored, and while Sara probably does not understand that, Amalia does. Sylvie Martin's foul tactics had ruined the marriage of Denis' brother — Luc. The normally mild-mannered fellow lost his job, his wife and surrendered to an addiction to alcohol. A brilliant professor reduced to struggling to keep a job as a janitor of a library.

Professeur Grissom would not fall victim to the travesties that Luc suffered, not if Amalia and Denis could help it. They would work to prove Sylvie Martin should be held accountable for her actions, and that Gilbert Grissom's reputation should remain intact. Not just at work but in his home life as well.

As Amalia observed her young son sitting at the table, a sense of protective urgency hit her. She could no longer deny she was worried about the Professeur's safety and needed to be more proactive in finding out if something was truly wrong. She retrieved her small phone book to look up Madam Grissom's cellular.

But Sara would she still be in the middle of the jungle, which meant Amalia's call would simply be met with another voice mail recording. Besides, taking a second look at her kitchen clock, Amalia realized it would be too late — close to midnight — if she called Madam Grissom. _I'm not sure if Madam is following the same schedule as she would at work in Vegas._

Vegas. _Why hadn't I thought of that before?_ Amalia thought to herself. The Professeur worked in his Las Vegas lab for years, and he said there were still some of his former colleagues who continued to work with his wife. If Amalia called Madam Grissom's work, perhaps a coworker might know about of the Professeur's whereabouts. Or perhaps her supervisor has more extensive contact information for Madam Grissom while she is away.

And calling her coworkers would not be a problem at this hour. Since they work... how did the Professeur describe it? Graveyard shift?

Amalia quickly gathered Aloisio in her arms and headed with him to her bedroom so she can change. She needed to get to her office, find the Professeur's phone book and make some phone calls.

* * *

DB Russell had arrived early for his midnight shift and was working on paperwork, when Judy at the front desk buzzed him.

"Hello, Judy," DB said as he answered the line in his jovial voice.

"Hello," Judy responded with her own brand of cheerfulness. "There is a woman on the line for you who said she is the secretary for Professor Gil Grissom."

"OK," DB said, prompting Judy to continue.

"That's Sara's husband."

DB shook his head and smiled. "Yes, Judy. I did know that. And why is this woman calling?"

"She's trying to see if we could offer contact information for Sara while she is away," Judy said. "She said it was urgent."

"Go ahead and put the call through," DB said before ending his conversation with Judy and answering the transferred call. "This is DB Russell."

"Mr. Russell. My name is Amalia Chauncey. I'm calling from the University of Paris, where I work as an assistant to Professeur Gil Grissom. I thank you for taking my call."

Although the woman on the line had an accent, DB was immediately impressed with her English. "Your welcome, Madam Chauncey. Is madam correct?"

"Oui, monseuir. Parlez-vous français?"

"No. No. Just the basics," DB said as he looked at his watch. "Now, since it's 11:30 p.m., here, I'm guessing it is early morning in Paris?"

"It is an 9-hour difference, yes sir," Amalia replied. "I knew that Madam Grissom worked a late shift, and I was hoping to speak to you as her supervisor. I do apologize if I am disturbing your work, but I have some concerns about Madam's husband."

"You are not disturbing me at the moment," DB said. "I'm not sure how I can help you, Madam Chauncey. But are you trying to get in touch with Sara because of an emergency with Dr. Grissom?"

Amalia sighed. "I... I am not sure. I am quite worried about Professeur Grissom, I am not certain you and he know one another?"

"We've never actually met, but its hard not to hear his name in the lab, since he was a prominent figure here," DB said.

"Yes, I can understand that sentiment sir. It is a pleasure to work with him," Amalia replied, with a hint of pride. Yet, DB could still detect distress in her voice. "The Professeur left Paris six days ago to ... attend to matters at home, in Las Vegas. He was going to meet with Madam Grissom before she left on her trip to Central America. Although I received an email from the Professeur when he arrived in Las Vegas, I have not heard from him since. He hasn't answered any calls or emails."

Amalia paused for a moment before continuing. "It is my hope that the Professeur accompanied Madam Grissom on her travels, but ... perhaps I am being ... how would you say ... overly-worried? ... But the Professeur had said he would keep me informed of his plans once he reached America, and it is so unlike the Professeur to not be in contact."

"OK," DB said as he processed what the woman on the other line was saying. For all he knew, this woman could be an imposter. "How have you tried to reach Sara?"

"Along with her home phone number and email, I have Madam Grissom's cellular phone number, and, as you can imagine, it is not functioning where she is currently residing, which I believe she said was the 'jungles of Nicaragua.'"

DB retrieved the phone numbers he had for Sara. If this woman truly worked with Grissom, she would have the correct contact information. "Could you give me the contact information you have for Sara. I'll make sure it matches our records here."

DB heard the woman retrieve something before returning to the phone. "I've had the same numbers for her since I started working with the Professeur. Although I tried the home number, Madam also said I should contact her via her cellular since it would be 'glued to her hip,' as she would say."

DB smiled at the statement, which definitely would have come out of Sara's mouth. He noted that the numbers were correct and she even offered an email address DB didn't recognize. "Those are the numbers I have and is that Sara's personal email?"

"Yes, sir," Amalia replied. "I do have her work email at the LVPD, but I know she prefers correspondence at her personal address."

Again, DB thought that would be Sara's preference, which led him to believe this woman was who she said she was. He took out his calendar. "Did you say Grissom was trying to reach Sara before she left for Nicaragua?"

"He insisted on leaving when he did so he could meet her before she left," Amalia said. "According to his wife's travel itinerary, the Professeur would be in Vegas about one day and a half before Madam would leave."

DB frowned because now this woman possessed misinformation about Sara's trip. While this might have raised DB's suspicions, he knew the change was last minute. He glanced at the last e-mail he received from Sara. Along with himself, the other recipients on the message were Nick and Greg. But not her husband. "Madam Chauncey, did Grissom mention anything about the changes Sara made in her travel plans?"

"I am sorry, Mr. Russell. Are you saying that Madam's travel itinerary changed?"

"Yes. She left two days earlier than previously thought," DB said. "She also left six days ago. They would have missed each other."

There was silence on the other line. "Are you still there?" DB asked.

"Oui... Yes, sir. I am here." Amalia sounded distant and reflective.

"You said you heard from him when he reached Vegas," DB said. "Did he mention missing Sara?"

"No, he did not," Amalia replied. She seemed to become more distressed with DB's information. "His email was short. It simply said he had reached Vegas safely and he did not know what he would do next."

"Nothing else?" DB asked.

"He wanted to know if he should purchase more crackers," Amalia said wistfully. She paused before continuing. "He knows I enjoy the these crackers by the Nabisco company ... the, ah... sweet crackers?

"Graham crackers?"

"Oui... Yes. I cannot buy them here at home."

"So that short note is all the contact you have had with him, correct?"

"Yes sir," Amalia continued. "I am truly worried about him, Mr. Russell. I know I might be speaking ... how would you say? ... Out of turn? ... But I cannot help but think something is wrong."

"Well, I can appreciate your concern," DB said.

"Is it possible you might have alternate contact information for Madam?" Amalia asked. "I do not have the name of the organization sponsoring her travels. I'd like to try and contact her through that organization, if possible?"

DB looked through another set of emails from Sara. "She didn't give me contact information for the organization, but I do think I have the name of it somewhere. ... Ah... yes, the Hawthorne Committee, which is out of Carson City, Nevada."

He could hear her scribbling down the information. "Is that spelled in the same manner as the author?"

DB chuckled. "It is. Yes."

"Thank you, Mr. Russell. Perhaps if I contact them, I can reach a location in Nicaragua."

"As far as Vegas goes, I'm going to ask a couple of Sara's co-workers to drop by her house here," DB said. "They both worked with Grissom; they know Grissom. They might know where he is if they can't reach him at home."

Amalia let out a sound of relief. "Mr. Russell, that is kind of you to offer that support."

"You know," DB said, hoping to assuage the woman on the other line. "It's possible Grissom is around his house, but maybe you and he have been ... you know... playing phone tag."

"I am not certain what that means. Even after so much time with the Professeur, there are so many American colloquialisms that I am unaware of or get wrong," Amalia said, her voice sounding a bit lighter.

"It simply means you two might be missing each other," DB explained in his compassionate voice.

"Well, I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciate you making that offer, Mr. Russell. May I give you my contact information at the university and my home? If you would not mind ringing me..."

"Of course," DB said, as he wrote down the numbers, country code and all.

"Again, I appreciate you offering me the time, Mr. Russell," Amalia said.

"It sounds like you are close with Sara and her husband," DB said.

"I am very fond of them both. The Professeur and Madam are both good people," Amalia said. "I wish you a good day... or, morning, sir."

DB offered a light-hearted chuckle. "Good luck, Madam Chauncey."

They hung up, and DB glanced up to see Greg pass by his office. "Sanders!" DB yelled.

Greg peeked his head in DB's office door. "Hey. Something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," DB said. "If Nick's here, could you and he come by the office. Got something to share with you two."

* * *

Amalia hung up the phone more worried than when she had first made the phone call. She nervously rubbed her forehead and held back a sob. Before doing research to find contact information for the Hawthorne Committee, she wanted to gain some emotional support. She was about to call her own husband when she heard a knock on her door.

"She will not listen to a word you say."

Sylvie Martin's icy tone cut through Amalia like a knife. This was not the emotional support she needed at the moment. "Mademoiselle, I must ask you to leave."

"I spoke with her and told her what _really_ happened. How your dear Professeur could not keep his hands off me."

"I am asking you again, Mademoiselle Martin, please leave this office immediately."

"How we brought each other to the brink of sexual pleasure over and over," Sylvie said as she continued inside the office. "I'm afraid I can't give you all the details I shared with _Madam Grissom._ The tale simply is too high-class for a cheap _boudin_ like yourself."

Amalia knew Sylvie used the slur to gain an improper reaction. But Amalia neither had the time nor the inclination to give Sylvie Martin anything she desired. She gracefully picked up her phone and before dialing said, "The Professeur is not the only person who puts the police, or in this case the university security, on speed dial, Mademoiselle."

Sylvie shot Amalia a scathing look. "You have no idea..."

"Yes, I do," Amalia retorted angrily. "Peddle your lies elsewhere, mademoiselle. I have much work to do. Leave."

Amalia stood her ground with a solemn, strong look on her face. Inside she was raging, but her outside demeanor seemed calm and determined.

Sylvie Martin could not compete. She huffed out of the office. Once she did, tears ran down Amalia's face. She had no doubt the _bardajona_ called Madam Grissom and painted an ugly, false picture of what had happened.

Although the urgency she felt earlier increased tenfold, Amalia felt paralyzed. Today was not a good day.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Reviews and comments are appreciated. I'm not thrilled with this chapter. It could have been better, but I wanted to post. Bad me. I hope it reads well.


	31. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing relateg to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 30**

* * *

Sara awoke with a start and in a sweat. As her heart pounded lougly in her chest, she felt like the world was closing in on her.

She blamed that feeling on her nightmare. Sitting up on her cot, the strongest visions of her dream replayed in her conscious. Images of her husband searching and wandering endlessly. He seemed confused and in terrible pain.

Sara could see herself watching him, as if he was in some immense interrogation room, and she viewed him from the outside, as she would any criminal suspect. Although she couldn't hear him say anything, she swore he was trying desperately to tell her something.

As the vestiges of her dream ceased to dissipate, she searched under her cot for her flashlight. She felt the need to leave the tent, but she didn't want to bother Vicky, her tent mate.

Moving silently, she put on a pair of shorts over her panties and pulled on a clean pair of socks before dressing in her boots. At one point, her flashlight beam strayed over to Vicky's side of the tent. Although ready to offer a whispered apology, Sara noticed Vicky was not in her cot.

She lit up the room with her flashlight and discovered she was alone. For some reason, it made her feel disappointed. Being alone only made the visions linger a little longer in her mind.

_It's 12:15 in the morning. Do you know where your tent mate is?_ Sara had a good idea where she was.

Sara exited the tent and headed toward the kitchen tent. It surprised her to find Ramon sitting there reading a book - a romance novel she had finished reading just a couple of months ago.

"Personally, I thought Harvey was a better fit for Vanessa than Lord Mason, the Earl of Derby. Wouldn't you agree?"

Ramon jumped at hearing Sara's voice, and with very little stealth grace, hid his book under his butt. "Jesus, Sara. You scared the shit out of me!"

"You didn't answer my question," Sara said, folding her arms and offering a devilish smile.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ramon answered, trying to sound bewildered.

Sara approached Ramon on the side he hid the book. "You must not have gotten to castle rendezvous, yet."

"They meet at the castle?" Ramon said excitedly, until he realized he was busted. "You're a killjoy, you know that?"

Sara chuckled. "Sorry. I never would have guessed you for a trashy romance hound."

Ramon smiled shyly. "Yeah, well, right back 'atcha." He watched as Sara took a seat across from him. "So, Sexy Sidal, why are you up?"

"Didn't I ask you not to call me that?"

"Lighten up," Ramon said, putting the book on the table, and watching Sara immediately snatch it up. "Seriously, what's up?"

Sara perused through the pages and shook her head dismissively. "Nothing. Nightmare. Stayed with me. Just needed a breath of fresh air."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Why are you up?"

Although Ramon hardly knew Sara, he could tell she was a nice person who carried too much weight upon her shoulders. And if there was a possibility of cracking open her personal emotional landscape, she used a bevvy of stall tactics to avoid those conversations.

But Ramon always believed the defense for that are audacious and even potentially embarrassing accounts. "I'm up because I just had some mind-blowin' sex and I can only enjoy peanut butter sandwiches post coitus," he said with a smile. "I could use another sandwich if you're interested."

"Truly," Sara said, not enjoying the joke. "That is so unnecessary."

Ramon gave a quick pout then spoke up. "Well, then let's talk about your nightmare. Anyone I know in it?"

"How about you just take no for an answer," Saraa said, feeling a bit on edge.

"Look," Ramon said. "I'm not trying to hit on you, OK. I'm not trying to butt in on your life. I'm just trying to help someone who obviously has something really heavy on their mind and might implode if they don't have a sounding board."

Sara looked at him, then quickly looked down on her hands clasped upon the table. "I just don't..." Her voice simply trailed off because she was afraid of the sob welling up in throat.

They sat in silence for a minute, before Ramon spoke up. "So what happened to your husband in your dream?"

Sara looked up. "I never said my husband was in my dream."

"You didn't have to," Ramon said sympathetically. "What's his name?"

"Gil," Sara offered quietly.

He didn't show it, but Ramon felt a moment of victory. He wanted to push more, hoping it would spur her to open up. "What happened to Gil in your dream? He leave or get hurt or say something or do something terrible ?"

Sara stared off in the distance as she spoke. "He looked hurt and he looked like he was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't hear him." She shook her head. "All I did was watch him. I never moved toward him to help him."

Ramon was no psychiatrist, but it wouldn't take one to see that Sara felt torn over a critical point in her marriage. "I know what happened at the airport is none of my business, you've told me that already, and I get that," Ramon said. "But it sounds like you're not ready to have him get the fuck out of your life like you told him in the airport."

Although Ramon was fully prepared for Sara to storm out of the tent, she didn't move. So he took that as a sign to continue. "You know, I figured I didn't have a chance with you the minute I saw the look on his face in the airport."

That got Sara's attention. "_His_ face?"

Ramon nodded. "I might not know much about relationships, but I can tell when a man is full of bullshit or full of heartbreak. You're man was chock full of God-honest heartbreak."

Sara looked at Ramon solemnly. "I just don't know."

"Yeah, you do," Ramon said encouragingly. "Talk to him. Give him a chance. And at the first whiff of bullshit, dump him, come back to me and enjoy some amazin' peanut butter."

Sara missed Ramon's joke as she rubbed her eyes as they began releasing her tears. "It's not like I can do anything now. I won't be able to try and reach him till we leave in a few days."

"You don't have to wait," Ramon interrupted. "Look, I'm tired of Fred's bullshit and working on a project that is going absolutely nowhere. I want to see the log from the last team, and get some correspondence out to a couple of people I know who bailed on this trip. Tomorrow morning if he doesn't drive us into town so I can see his files at that office, you and I are stealing the keys and getting there ourselves. Once there, you can do your thing and I'll do mine."

"We got so much work to complete in the morning..."

"We've been over this Sara," Ramon countered. "It's time to face the facts; this organization is a sham, and been a waste of time for us. They've insulted us as professionals."

Sara expression became reflective and resigned. The two of them had been discussing the mismanagement of the trip at length for the past day and a half. Ramon made persuasive arguments and Sara had to admit she was overlooking the poor protocol of the project because she wanted this to work out.

But she could no longer run away from reality — in the jungle or in Vegas. "You're right. I wish you weren't, but you're right."

Ramon smiled at Sara, a smile that turned mischievous. "So you'll run away with me?"

But the smile was contagious. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"Not with Sexy Sidal."

Sara rolled her eyes, but let it go. "Do you really only have peanut butter sandwiches after sex? Because I really want a sandwich now but I do not in any way, shape or form want to have sex with you."

"Sara?"

"Yes, Ramon."

"That is the best let down I've ever had," he said as he went to retrieve the sandwich fixings. "And, to answer your question: No. That was bullshit. But I do enjoy them instead of sex."

Sara smiled as she made her sandwich. Before she took a bite, she pushed his novel across the table. "So, your trashy obsession..."

"Careful there," Ramon warned as he reached for the book. "I love this shit."

"Hey no arguments from me," Sara said. "I was going to ask if you read the author's trilogy - 'Out of the Universe; Into the Love Fold'?"

Ramon slammed the peanut butter jar on the table. "Are you kidding me? That scene on the metropolis sub-atomic probe where Kalula and Nathan projected a sun-lit beach for the dying planet..."

"Made absolutely no sense, but..." Sara said. "It was hot!"

"H-to-the-A-to-the-W-T!" Ramon said, reaching to get a high five from his trashy romance novel kindred spirit.

After they both had had little to laugh about for almost a week, the unlikely duo shared a hearty one together. Maybe the dawn would bring them a good day.

* * *

Within the numbness and silence, Grissom sat on his mattress roll. The effects of slamming himself into that wall three times still lingered. The first two times, Grissom took the brunt of the force on his left side, the same side his captor attacked when Grissom first entered this house... God knows how many days ago.

But the third time, Grissom rammed into the wall face first. The agonizing sound of Grissom crushing his own nose was unmistakable, and, a result, he imagined his nose to be twice its normal size.

The physical pain coupled with his mental anguish made his head feel heavy. Every time his captor toyed with him, his mental well-being slipped away.

The only respite and compassion came from hearing Warrick's voice. Yet the disembodied voice from the grave caused Grissom to question his mental fortitude. _If I hear him, and feel as if he is with me, I'm insane. But when I listened to his voice, I felt I could continue. But it couldn't have been him. I know it wasn't him._

_But in a way I wish he was here with me now._

Grissom's head throbbed in response to his own thoughts. He heard a dull thud. It repeated itself within in his mind with each throbbing pulse. He took gentle, deep breaths. Although staring in darkness, he closed his eyes. He felt tired, but not sleepy.  
Just spent.  
And alone.  
But not sleepy.  
He felt like he was in a vacuum.  
With nowhere to go.  
Nowhere.  
And with no one with him.  
No one.  
Time slowed.  
Or did it speed up to be meaningless?  
His body felt heavy.  
Like it was sinking.  
Rotting.  
Into the ground.

His eyes flew open to the darkness of the room. His breathing was no longer gentle. Rapid. Rushed. Like he couldn't get enough air from his lungs. He wasn't breathing right. He was going to run out of breath in this vacuum. The room was hotter. The air stale. And it was running out.

Anxiety attack. He needed to calm down. Get his mind off the nothingness. … no, just get his mind on something. Anything.

Grissom banged the heel of his palm against his forehead. _Stop. You need to stop. You need a task._ He continued to bang his forehead. _What. Is. My. Task._

Although unaware of time, Grissom felt the temperature of the room steadily rise. What little sweat he possessed lightly perspired upon his shirt. Little perspiration while in the heat meant he could be suffering from dehydration. He needed to drink something.

_That must be my task,_ he thought to himself. _I need to walk to the sink, turn on the faucet and drink._

He got up slowly. A woozy feeling threatened to overtake his body, but he breathed through it. No time to rush. Time seemed to be the only thing Grissom had.

It troubled him momentarily when he heard himself wheeze as he breathed. His lungs ached as he took his labored breaths. But he couldn't concentrate on that; he had his task to complete - go to the sink and drink water.

Once he felt focused and steady, he walked the appropriate three and a half steps and reached the sink. He bent his head down and cupped water from the faucet into his mouth. He did so over and over until his thirst felt satiated.

The water felt good going down his throat, but as it trickled onto his shirt Grissom felt sticky. Removing his clothes wouldn't help with the heat, but he knew from experience that being stuck in wet clothes would not be a good idea if his captor froze the room.

Grissom removed his shirt first. It was a slow, painful task. His shoulder was so sore, he wondered if the pain he felt throughout his arm was worth the effort. Only a few sounds escaped his mouth, but internally he moaned loudly in protest of the pain.

After taking off the garment, he hung it off the side of the basin. He breathed slow and heavy until he could gain some control. Again, he had all the time in the world, why rush anything?

He blinked his eyes over and over until he could find a point of focus. When he did, he grabbed his t-shirt and washed it under the water. He dragged it from one end of the basin to the other and tried to squeeze as much water and possible from it. It still felt wet, but his arm was now too sore to effectively wring out the garment. So he thought and thought.

Then Grissom improvised. He put one end of the t-shirt in his mouth and used the hand on the good arm to wring out the shirt once, twice, three times. He knew the garment would dry in no time, so his turned around walked three and a half steps to the concrete platform that served as his bed. He straightened out the garment, turned slightly to find the end of his bed wall, and placed the garment flat on the raised surface.

He could feel a smile form on his face as he seemed to complete his task. Then a notion popped in his tired mind — _damn I feel filthy in this underwear._

If he wrung them out well, the garment could dry quicker than his shirt. Of course, that would mean he would be naked as his clothes dry. _He watches me,_ he thought, contemplating whether being naked would put him in an even more vulnerable state.

But that thought made Grissom laugh. Battered and bruised inside and out, and teetering on the cusp on of his own personal sanity, he undid the button of his trousers and pulled open his zipper. _ENJOY THE SHOW, YOU BASTARD,_ he screamed to himself, as his pants pooled around his ankles. He stepped out of his pants, and pulled down his underwear with inordinate flourish. Again he laughed, unable to voice the sarcastic comments floating in his head -_ HOW YOU LIKE THESE APPLES? AND TO THINK, NO EXTRA CHARGE FOR THE FULL MONTY!_

Although he enjoyed his laugh, Grissom knew he had a task to complete. He used his toes to pick up his underwear off the floor and then used his good arm to pick it up. He placed it in the sink and then repeated the same movements to get a hold of his pants.

Instead of putting his pants on the sink, he turned to get back to his bed roll. He placed them on the far side of the platform so they wouldn't get wet.

Then the naked Grissom walked back to the basin to wash his underwear. Once satisfied with the washing and rinsing, Grissom put the elastic end of the garment in his mouth and used his good hand to wring out the excess water. Four twists seem to do the trick.

He turned to the platform again to hang his underwear to dry. He could have sat back down, but he returned to the sink again, he bent his head down closer to the sink's basin and put handfuls of water over his hair.

Grissom stood up straight and felt a dizzy spell. He had to listen to his body. Normally simple tasks now required a lot of energy while in this room and in his condition.

But Grissom thought he still had some strength to wash his face. Taking a deep breath, he got his bearings, then cupped water upon himself. He knew his nose would not want any extra attention, but Grissom wanted to feel cleaner. It probably wasn't his best idea, but how many good ideas occur in the dark while naked in a locked room?

He cupped water again and again. He spit out the taste of blood, grime and sweat that beaded off his face. He raised up his head and while calming himself through another spell of nausea and anxiety, he stared straight into nothingness.

Allowing his mind to wander, he envisioned the wall in front of him begin to fade away and in its place, a large mirror fogged thanks to the steam from the shower behind him. He used his right hand to wipe away the steam to see his reflection.

His image seemed younger, fresher. He heard the familiar sound of shower door sliding open. He wiped the mirror more in hopes of catching a glimpse of her exiting the shower. He awaited the sound if stepping on the bath mat and closing the door.

But all he heard was a thud like a door had closed. The loud sound startled him out of his dream and he whipped his head behind him. He didn't dare move. Did he truly hear the noise? Or was this another hallucination?

He stood still and braced his hands upon the basin of the sink. He listened intently for any other noise. Tried to feel any other movement. Tried to smell any other scent. Tried to catalog any other sensory evidence of another person in the room with him.

When he felt his arms wobble, Grissom took a long breath and gathered his courage to move again. He had forgotten he had been standing nude for some time. But now he could feel the heat of the room cling to every inch of his exposed body.

_Calm down,_ he told himself. _Focus on your task._

He turned and traversed the three and a half steps to his bed platform. He groped the edges of cement to find his different garments, his underwear first. He must have stood at the sink for a long time, because his underwear felt dry. He gingerly put them on, and then groped for his pants.

He found his shirt, which still felt a little damp, but he couldn't find his pants. _How could that be?_ he thought to himself._ I put them to the left of my shirt, at the far end. I know I did._

Perhaps they slipped off the platform, he concluded. He braced his right arm against the edge of platform and knelt on the floor, then moved his right arm in a semicircle in hopes of finding his pants. He knew if they were on the floor, they couldn't be far.

But they weren't anywhere. Then he thought about the thud. His captor came in and took his pants. "Why... take?" he questioned aloud in a weak voice.

Grissom stood up and turned back to the platform. He urgently groped for his shirt again, grateful when he found it. Disregarding how it felt, he quickly put it over his head. While he easily pulled his right arm through, he forgot to take care with his injured left side. He let out a hoarse moan as he dressed on his left side. His movements left him breathless. He choked back the pain, and sat back on his bed roll.

Exhausted, he leaned heavily against the wall. _He might have taken my pants, but he sure as hell won't take my shirt._

Although oblivious of how much time passed, Grissom could tell something had changed in the next few moments. He grimaced as he realized the room's temperature was dropping.

Grissom had no idea if this was the start of a new day. But if it was, it sure was a shitty start.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: It stinks not having a workable "g" key or "d" key. Lots of cuttin' and pastin'. Hope you enjoyed the read. Reviews, comments are always appreciated.


	32. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 31**

By 6:15 a.m., Nick and Greg were on the road headed away from the lab. Before shift, DB told them about the phone call he received from Amalia Chauncey. He asked if either one of them had heard of that name before. Greg had. Sara liked Amalia and trusted her working with Grissom, which Greg knew was female code for "She won't sleep with my husband who is 5,000 miles away."

As the three of them discussed the phone call, no one wanted to admit the tension in the room. The order of the day was not to overreact because certainly there was a reasonable explanation for not being able to reach Grissom.

DB said he would complete Nick and Greg's last minute tasks so they could visit the Grissom household as soon as the sun rose. Nick jumped in the driver's seat. While Greg sat quiet and stared out the window of the passenger's seat, Nick fidgeted nervously as he drove the SUV down the road.

"So what do you think about all this?" Nick asked.

Greg continued to look out the window. "Hell if I know." His voice had a tinge of annoyance. "I don't know understand why we're the ones checking this out."

Nick couldn't believe he heard his friend talk like that. "'Cause we care about Sara and Grissom, right?" Nick waited for Greg to look at him but he received no response. "Look, Greg, if you want me to drop you off at your house, I'll just go by myself."

Finally Greg looked at Nick. "I'll go with you. All I'm saying is it's not like Sara's been talking to me about what's going on with her and Grissom."

"Yeah, with me either," Nick said as he took a left down a suburban street. "But I haven't been getting a vibe that they are doing OK. You know? I mean, Sara might not know it but she sure says a lot without saying a word."

"I guess," Greg replied.

"What the hell is your problem?" Nick asked fully frustrated.

"What if they're not even together anymore?" Greg said, his own voice full of frustration. "How the hell would Sara feel if she and Grissom broke up and here we are going into her house trying to find out what happened to someone who isn't even a part of her life anymore?"

Greg's comment caused Nick to grip the steering wheel tighter. "Jesus, Greg. Is that what you think?"

"It's not like Sara would tell us about a breakup, even if it happened or was going to happen or whatever," Greg said. "We don't even know if she's staying at CSI or not. It's like we're waiting for her to vanish. And for all we know, Grissom might have done that to her."

Nick stayed silent as he pondered Greg's statement. While he would never want to believe it, Sara had been distant, especially in the last few months. But he never thought she would just up and leave without telling anyone. And he never thought Grissom would do that to her. "I think we just need to go to the house with an open mind, Greg. For all we know, Grissom might answer the front door."

* * *

After ringing the bell and knocking on the door garnered no response, Nick extracted the house key Sara gave him to water the plants. He unlocked the door and entered with Greg reluctantly following him.

"Hello?" Nick shouted. "It's Nick. Grissom? You around here?"

Nick shrugged his shoulders at Greg who shook his head. They both knew no one was at home. "I'm going to check the garage for his car," Nick said, leaving Greg to wander around the house.

Greg didn't find too many items out of place. He did notice a framed photo of Sara and Grissom on a small table next to a cordless phone/answering machine combo. The light on it blinked to alert that several messages had been stored.

A Fed Ex envelope on a coffee table caught Greg's eye. He looked at the papers sticking out of the envelope to find Sara's itinerary and a photo of someone she was supposed to meet at the airport. He did a double take when he read the dates on the itinerary. The arrival date had changed to be two days earlier, which was no surprise to him since he changed his schedule to accommodate Sara's last minute flight arrangements.

But he assumed the entire trip was pushed up two days, meaning she would be back in town tomorrow evening. That wasn't the case. Her departing flight never changed. The trip wasn't moved up two days; it was extended two days. "She never said anything about that to us," Greg said aloud to himself, as he recalled the conversation Sara had with Morgan and him at the candy store scene. Morgan specifically asked if she had anything planned since she would be home a couple of days earlier. Sara completely evaded Morgan's question.

That led Morgan to ask whether Sara and Grissom were still together. And now Greg was questioning the very same thing. He went to search for Nick, who was coming in the house from the garage.

"Sara's Prius is here, and it's parked on the left-hand side of the garage, like it was next to another car," Nick said. "But Griss's Mercedes isn't in the garage."

Greg nodded and flashed the papers he found. "When did you think Sara was coming back to Vegas?"

"Well," Nick said, taking out his phone and bring up a calendar app. "She left two days earlier... so she'd be back ... tomorrow night or the next morning."

"According to this itinerary, she come back the on the same original date, which is three days from today."

"What?" Nick said, grabbing the paper from Greg. He checked the dates to his phone's calendar. "I really thought the whole trip was moved up two days."

"So did I," Greg said.

The information made Nick feeling uncomfortable, but it didn't sway him from his task. "Well, there was a bowl left in the sink, I have a hard time believing Sara would have left that knowing she'd be gone for more than a week," Nick said. "But that might mean Grissom was in here."

"Maybe," Greg said, not too enthused with the finding. "Let's check the bedroom."

They entered it to find the bed made, and large box sitting in the corner. Nick peeked into the box. "Dog stuff. Must be all of Hank's stuff."

"I don't see a suitcase," Greg said, looking in the bathroom and closets.

"Maybe he already put it away," Nick said. "His secretary said he arrived in Vegas six days ago."

"Or maybe he took it somewhere else," Greg said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, that's a possibility," Nick said, as he wandered in the bathroom. "I don't see a toiletry bag here, but there is guy stuff here anyway. Including two toothbrushes." He stopped to touch each of the brush's bristles, which were both dry. That didn't encourage Nick. "I'm going back to the kitchen."

Greg watched Nick leave and surveyed the bedroom again. He could distinguish Sara's side of the bed immediately, thanks to the trashy romance novel on the bedside tables. He chuckled as he inspected the book's well-worn spine.

There was nothing special on the other bedside table. The lamp was a little dusty, as was the area around it. The only other things on the nightstand were two dog toys, which gave Greg pause. Although Sara loved Hank, she always said he was Grissom's baby boy, an image Greg always had a hard time picturing. Grissom getting emotional about anything was always tough for Greg to picture. It's not like he thought Grissom was a robot, but he certainly kept himself closed up emotionally.

At least that's how Greg always saw it. Even when Grissom dropped the bombshell during the Miniature Killer case, he seemed to do it in an unattached demeanor. Logically, Greg knew that was because Grissom was probably in shock about what happened to Sara. But it never sat well with him. And it's not like Greg witnessed Grissom offer Sara any affection. Of course, Greg never wanted to witness Grissom doing that either...

Greg went back to the box holding the dog stuff and turned it around to find Sara's handwriting on it. Greg mentally cataloged what he saw: _So she packed the box, but there seemed to be two toys on Grissom's side of the bed. Grissom probably took them out because he was missing Hank._

At that moment, an image flooded Greg's mind — Grissom playing catch with Hank in a park. He's smiling and the dog is jumping all over him.

Greg pursed his lips in thought. It still made no sense that there was no sign of Grissom at the house. _So if Grissom came here and made a point of taking out two of the toys, why would he leave... vanish without taking the toys with him?_

It was certainly a possibility he left without them. There was nothing to say that Grissom would take anything from the house with him if he left for good. Yet, Greg heard a voice in his head saying, "Something just ain't right about this."

Had Grissom been home? Did he unpack his suitcase, as Nick suggested? Were they still together, despite every unspoken cue Sara gave that indicated something different.

Greg frowned as he moved out of the room to find Nick. He stood in front of a desk messing with a pad of paper. "Find something?" Greg asked.

"Looks like someone was trying to write a note, but the pen ran out of ink," Nick said as he picked up a pen to the right of the pad. "This pen's out of ink. I was hoping to find a pencil so I could rub it on this blank sheet of paper. Try to make an impression of what the top sheet had written on it."

They both looked through the drawers. Greg found one and handed it to Nick, who used it on the pad. He finished rubbing the carbon on the paper to make a copy of the missing note. "I know it's been a while, but I think that's Grissom's scrawl."

Greg looked over Nick's shoulder. "Yeah. Could be. But it doesn't look like he wrote much."

"Take 518 to Sunrise," Nick read.

"Wasn't that where you had to go for that interview about Landry?"

"Yeah," Nick answered. "And that guy from there, what the hell was his name? ... Headley... He asked about Grissom. He wanted to know about his role in the Landry case."

"You think Grissom met up with Headley?" Greg asked.

After listening to Greg play devil's advocate for the past half hour, Greg's lack of negativity surprised Nick. "So, now you think Grissom was here?"

Greg shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he was here. But if he was, where is he now?"

"That's a great question," Nick said. "I know you might think it's intruding on Sara, but, Greg, I think we should check those phone messages."

Greg sighed, but he couldn't dispute Nick's logic. "Yeah. OK."

Two messages were automated calls from charity pick-ups that would be in the area. Five messages were from Amalia Chauncey, and both men could tell how the woman's tone increasingly became more worried with each recorded message.

But in between Amalia's calls was a singular message from three days prior that peaked Nick's curiosity.

"Mr. Grissom, this is Connor Headley from Evaluation and Management Research and Psychological Services in Sunrise, Nevada. I am calling, as requested, about securing an interview with you regarding the Marshall Landry case. I look forward to hear from you. I believe much might be achieved from meeting with you."

* * *

Amalia Chauncey had completed a long day of research. Although Sylvie Martin's intrusion in her office was unwelcome, it only fueled Amalia to achieve her goal of reaching Madam Grissom, whereever she might be. She researched the web for anything she could find about the Hawthorne Committee. Although she found history and grant opportunities about the organization, she had only found a post office box for contact information.

But thanks to some help from the criminology department, she was able to find a phone number for an office in Carson City, Nevada, which is where DB Russell had told her the organization was headquartered. She began making a phone call at her office at about 6 p.m. When she received no answer, she took the phone number home with her.

For the next two hours Amalia called over and over. She wasn't even greeted with an answering machine. Finally, at 8 p.m. Paris time, Amalia reached a human being in the Carson City, Nevada, office of the Hawthorne Committee. With the phone cradled between her chin and right shoulder, Amalia spoke to a basically clueless woman halfway around the world as Aloisio fought sleep while resting on his mama's left shoulder.

"Now, who did you say you were again?" said the woman from the Hawthorne Committee. "I'm having a real hard time understanding your accent."

"My accent?" Amalia said incredulously. While she knew she had an accent, Amalia prided herself on speaking different languages with a minimal accent that would be more cosmetic rather than prohibitive. But getting snippy with this woman, probably wouldn't help her cause. "I do apologize. Perhaps if I speak slower."

"I'm not stupid, lady. Just speak better American," the woman on the other line snapped. "It's almost lunchtime, so tell me who you are again so I can hang up."

_It is 11 a.m. and either you were disregarding the phone for two hours, or you just arrived at the office, Amalia thought, knowing she should not voice any of those comments aloud._ "I am a colleague of Pro... of Gil Griss-om, who is the husband of Sar-a Si-dle Griss-om," Amalia said, trying to annunciate with as little an accent as possible. "Madam... Sara is currently in Central America with the Hawthorne Committee."

"Look, we have a lot of people who travel with the Hawthorne Committee..."

"And how many of them are named Sar-a Si-dle Griss-om?" Amalia interrupted.

Amalia heard the woman's exaggerated sigh. "I'm guessing one."

"So, perhaps you could offer me contact information for where she is stationed."

"Why should I?"

"It is a family emergency."

"And I should care why?"

Amalia closed her eyes and breathed. "As I said, this is a family emergency. Specifically with her husband."

"Maybe she is over there in the jungle because she's trying to get away from her husband."

"I'm certain she is not."

"Really?" said the snotty woman. "And how do you know that?"

"Because I know them both well and I know that Sara would want to know if something is wrong with her husband."

The woman on the other line seemed to enjoy teasing Amalia, and she didn't hide that fact one bit. She chuckled before she spoke. "How do I know you're not just some weirdo asking for that information?"

Amalia pursed her lips to control her emotion. "Would you excuse me for just one moment?"

"Whatever, but I don't have all day, Frenchie."

Amalia waved over to her husband, Denis, and gestured for him to take their sleeping toddler to his bed. She kissed the small boy on the cheek as his papa gently took him into his arms. Amalia offered her husband a soft smile, gave his forearm a loving squeeze and whispered, "Merci." Then she walked into the nearby bathroom and closed the door.

"Are you still there?" Amalia asked in a clipped tone.

"Yeah, but lady, I got stuff to do..."

"Shut up and listen to me," Amalia said in her harshest tone. "I have been patient, but I can no longer take your lack of professionalism and, more over, your lack of concern for another human being. I suggest you give me the contact information for Madam Sara Sidle Grissom immediately, or you will be getting a phone call from the Las Vegas Crime Lab asking you the very same thing. I can assure you that they will have far less patience with you than I have had."

Amalia took a well-deserved breath before she continued. "Now, do I need to repeat myself slower for your benefit or do you understand what I am asking?"

"Fine," the woman on the other line said. "You can be someone else's pain in the ass. I don't give a shit." Amalia heard the other woman tapping on the computer before she came on the line and gave Amalia a lengthy phone number. "Oh, and by the way, bitch. The woman who answers the phone in Nica..ra... down there, doesn't speak English or French."

"Ni un problema puta," Amalia said in perfect Spanish.

"Hey!" The woman on the other line yelled. "I know what that word means!"

"Good. That makes the two of us," Amalia said before she hung up the phone.

Amalia took a seat upon the toilet and mumbled curses to herself. She heard a knock on the door before Denis entered. He stood at the door with a smile on his face. "Qui avez-vous appelé une pute?" _Who did you call a bitch?_

"She called me a bitch first."

Denis let out a soft laugh and gestured for Amalia to stand up. She did and he engulfed her in a hug. "Vous le trouverez." You will find him, he gently told her, before pressing a kiss on her lips.

Amalia sighed and fought back her tears. "En plus," she said as she waved the phone in her hand. One more phone call. She hoped.

Denis nodded and left the bathroom to give his wife privacy.

Taking a deep breath to control her emotions, Amalia sat on the toilet again and proceeded to call Nicaragua, country code first.

* * *

tbc

* * *

A/N: If I could take a moment to be a fanwriter geek. I just wanted to say thank you to all of you who are reading this story. I means a lot to me that you are taking the time to read this. I hope it is entertaining and you are enjoying it.  
And a special thanks to those of you who take the time to review. Outside fandom, it is very rare for me to get feedback for my writing, which is why I find it so humbling and gratifying to receive the gracious comments I receive. Thank you. Gracias. Merci. Danke. Grazie. Obrigado. Spasibo. Tack. Salamat. Terima kasih. You know what I mean :-)


	33. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI or Romancing the Stone. If you can tell why I mention "Romancing the Stone," then you are a geek from the 1980s just like me and Chauncey :-)

A/N: This chapter was impossible without Chauncey's help. Thank you, my friend.

* * *

**CHAPTER 32**

The morning after Sara and Ramon's bonding experience over trashy romance novels, the two of them forced Fred to let them tag along while he drove to the committee office on the outskirts of the capitol city of Managua.

Packed in the cab of the old, rusty Chevrolet pickup truck, the trio practically flew down the side of the mountain away from their campsite. Sara felt snug in between Ramon and Fred, who drove. Although she didn't like being smooshed between two men, she was grateful she wasn't near the precarious passenger door held shut by worn-out duct tape.

No one knew just how precarious the passenger door was more than Ramon. He clung onto the "oh shit" bar so tightly that it came apart from the car's ceiling some seven miles into the trip. From that moment, he held a grip around Sara's waist to prevent himself from falling out of the cab as the odometer hovered close to 100 Km/h. For her part, Sara white-knuckled the dashboard to keep herself secure in her seat.

Although Ramon kept a hold on Sara out of necessity, Fred kept snickering at the duo. "Comfy you two?"

"Jesus Fred, slow down," Ramon barked. His nerves shot after being in the car for almost two hours. "You're going to get us killed."

"I know what I'm doing," Fred retorted. But before he could offer another comeback, the truck started shimmying and shaking and the next thing Sara heard was Ramon shouting, "Lookout!"

Fred took a hard right, which caused Ramon to lose a grip off of Sara as his body slammed into the door. It opened and Ramon flew out of the cab.

"OH SHIT! RAMON!" Sara yelled, as she reached out the open door. Fred saw her and grabbed her left arm and dragged her back in the cab. "Stop the truck, Fred!"

Fred fishtailed along the slick, muddy surface beneath the truck.

Sara jumped out of the truck and yelled for Ramon. "Turn the truck around! We have to find him!"

"GODDAMN IT!" Fred yelled as he left the driver's seat.

Although Fred tried to stay cool about the whole situation, Sara noticed how he was shaking. "You OK? You get hurt?"

Fred tried to shake off his nerves and looked at Sara with anger in his eyes. "I fuckin' knew we shouldn't have tried traveling today after last night's weather! This is on you two!"

"Fred! Ramon fell out of the truck!" Sara said incredulously. "Are you going to turn the truck around? If not, I'm just going to walk and look for him."

"Oh, stop freaking out. He's probably fine," Fred said as he went into the cab, put the truck in neutral, and went to the back of the truck. "We have to push the truck out of this patch. You going to bitch or help?"

Sara and Fred dug their heels in the soft ground. "Fred, we are really close to the edge here."

"THANK YOU, SARA! I KNOW THAT!" Fred said, his voice cracking a bit. "IT'S NOT LIKE WE HAVE AAA OUT HERE! JUST PUSH!"

The two struggling to gain any ground in pushing the truck, which seemed to Sara to be inching backward, rather than forward. "Fred," Sara said through gritted teeth. "This isn't working."

"Yes. It. Is!" Fred said, punctuating his last word with a huge push that quickly lunged the fender forward before flinging it backward with a force that knocked Fred off his balance, into to Sara and leading the two them to go sliding down the side of the ravine.

When they came to a halt at the bottom, the two of them were caked with mud, disoriented and crawling in two different directions. Sara couldn't see anything at first because of the mud in her face. She swiped her eyes to clear her vision and tried to cough and spit the remnants of mud that flooded her mouth and nose.

"Fred?" Sara called as she stood up and continued to wipe mud off herself. "You alright?"

Seemingly out of nowhere, Fred pulled Sara close to his body. Sara let out a nervous laugh as she tried to release herself from his grasp. "Well, you found me. Great. But, you can let go."

Fred didn't. With his head on her shoulder, Sara thought maybe the experience unnerved him and he just needed some reassurance. "Hey. You OK? Because I'm fine and you need to let me go. Let's call for Ramon..."

Instead of letting go, Fred lifted his head to face her and pulled her body even closer. "You're not fine. You need this."

Enough was enough. In a stern, controlled voice, Sara said, "Fred, let me go."

"It's been a long week, Sara," Fred whispered in her ear. "We both need this."

"Get off me," she demanded.

"No," Fred demanded back. "Don't fight this, Sara. I know you want this. I know you want to get back at him, and I'll be a hell of a lot better than Ramon."

Fred pressed his mouth against Sara's and tried to force his tongue in her mouth. His hands started roaming over her breasts and he began to try and rip off Sara's top.

Sara moved fiercely. She tried to scream, but couldn't as Fred assaulted her mouth. She pulled away from him enough to gain some leverage, lift up her foot and bear down on Fred's foot with as much weight as she could. Although she didn't feel she used full force, he must have hurt his foot in the fall because immediately after her boot made contact, Fred let out a scream and released her.

"You fuckin' bitch!" He yelled, reaching down to grab his foot. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me? Who the hell do you think you are?" Sara yelled back. "RAMON! WE'RE HERE! RAMON!"

"Oh sure, call your other lover," Fred said.

"Ramon is not my lover!" Sara yelled. "Did you hit your head on the way down, Fred?! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"You mean you're stringing him along too?" Fred said. "Don't act like you haven't been throwing us BOTH signals all week."

"Signals?" Sara said incredulously. "Being cordial to you is giving you a signal to assault me?"

"Assault you? Are you kidding me?" Fred yelled. "I'm giving you what you wanted!"

Sara wanted to rage against him. "You bastard! I don't want anything from you. Nothing. And I certainly didn't ask you to assault me!"

"You wanted to have sex with me."

"No, I didn't, Fred, for so many reasons, including the fact I'm married."

Fred laughed heartily. "Yeah, you're a fuckin' vision of marriage. It's not like you canceled when he couldn't come with you. And excuse me for thinking you'd want the chance to get back at him! It's a small camp, Sara. You think I didn't hear what was going on? You said he cheated on you and you couldn't forgive him."

The comment hurt Sara, and it only spurred Fred to continue. "Oh, poor, Sara. What's the matter, honey?" he said in a mocking voice. "You go through this drama queen shit every time the fucker gets pussy behind your back?"

While noises in the distance should have caught her attention, Sara's sole focus was upon Fred. She took angry steps toward him, which spurred him to step backward, trip and fall on his ass. Sara stood over Fred and saw a look of apprehension on his face. "You don't know one thing about me or or my husband or my marriage, you bastard. So don't think you have ANY right to speak to me like that or treat me like you did. You understand?"

Just then, the two of them heard more noise and Ramon calling out to them. When he came to the clearing, he ran up to the two of them. "Oh thank God!" Ramon said, relieved to see his campmates. But it took no time to notice the tense situation in front of him. "Are you two OK? What's going on here? Sara? You all right?"

"Oh, she's just fine but she broke my fucking ankle," Fred said.

"She what?" Ramon knew something had to be wrong. "Why would she do that?"

"Why? Why don't we ask Sara," Fred replied as he nursed his ankle. "So, Sara, now that the three of us are together tell us the truth: Did you constantly cock block your husband like you just did to me?"

"Whoa, Fred!" Ramon said, as he gauged the angry look upon Sara's face. "What the fuck is that all about?"

But Fred didn't even bother to recognize Ramon's comment. All Fred thought about was how his ankle hurt, and that bitch caused it. "Is that how it went with that husband of yours in your 'wonderful marriage' Sara? HA! It's no wonder you can't trust the son of a bitch."

That was it. Sara had to choose whether to pound the injured man to a pulp or walk away. With Ramon as her witness, she approached Fred fiercely. Ever the zoologist, Ramon likened the scene to a lioness approaching a wounded gazelle, except this gazelle was a lying, loud-mouth douchebag that definitely deserved to be pounced upon.

But Sara didn't pounce. She just looked down at Fred sadly. One thing that man said to her was absolutely true — it had been a long week. And now, it was time to end it. She reached down toward Fred, which made him flinch. "Move your foot," she commanded.

He did successfully, although he tried to grimace dramatically.

Ramon approached them both. "Is it broken? Should we shoot him?"

Sara looked at him with a ghost of a smile. "I think it's just bruised."

"It's fucking broken," Fred said.

"You're wiggling it right now, Fred," Ramon said as he put his arms under Fred's armpits and pulled him up. "Sara, can you find him a walking stick or something?"

Sara nodded and went around the corner while Fred stood up. His pride stung as much as his ankle. "That bitch is trouble."

Without warning Ramon grabbed Fred's shirt collar and pushed him roughly against a tree. "You're lucky I didn't see what the fuck you did to her. One more goddamn word out of you, and both your legs will be broken and we'll leave you here."

"Lay off him, Ramon," Sara said behind him. When Ramon moved away from Fred, she tossed a stick toward him. "We need to get back to the truck."

"Damn thing's stuck, remember?" Fred said sarcastically.

Sara dismissed him. Instead, she walked up to the ravine and spoke to Ramon, who followed her. "I hope the CB radio still works in the truck."

"If it does, I'll contact the Hawthorne office and talk to Eugenia, the office worker," Ramon said. "Maybe someone can pick us up."

"We're not far from there," Sara said. "The two of us could walk."

"Well, that's true for the two of us, but not so much for Fred," Ramon said with a smile. "Let me try to call first."

"Fine."

Ramon put a hand on Sara's forearm. "Let him catch up a bit," he said, gesturing to Fred who struggled several steps behind them. "You OK?"

"Yes," Sara answered solemnly

"He hurt you?"

Sara shot Ramon a sympathetic and grateful look. "If he did, do you really think he could still walk?" The two shared a smile. "What about you, Ramon? You OK?"

"Me? I'm always good," he retorted, enjoying the eye roll reaction he got from Sara. "Why do you ask?"

"Why?" Sara asked, adding a nervous laugh. "You fell out of a moving car and down a ravine."

"Oh, that," Ramon said, as he rubbed his arm. "Hell, that's how one of my last ex-girlfriends ended our relationship — pushing me out of a moving car on Cannery Row. Trust me, this was far, far less painful. Zero road burn from the pavement and no sea lions barking at me."

Sara shook her head and chuckled at the image Ramon painted. "Let's get going. I want to know if that radio is working."

"Fred's still behind," Ramon said as he followed Sara's long-legged gait.

Sara stopped, shot a look behind her and proceeded her sojourn. "I honestly don't give a shit about him."

Ramon snickered behind her. "Atta girl."

* * *

"El Comite de la Organisacion de Hawthorne."

After having such a trying day, it surprised Amalia to reach someone right away in Nicaragua. She quickly composed herself before speaking to the woman on the other line. "Hola, soy Amalia Chauncey y estoy llamando de Paris en Francia. Con quien esta hablando?" _Who am I speaking with?_ Amalia asked.

"Eugenia Trapado." The woman on the other line was all business. While not pleasant, she was not rude. Nor did she seemed phased to have a call coming from a complete stranger who is half way around the world.

"Gracias, Señora Trapado. Ojala que usted esta bien," Amalia said, telling Eugenia she hoped she is doing well. Amalia wanted to start this conversation on a positive note.

"Si," the woman said unaffected, almost uninterested. "Que necesitas?" What do you need? she asked.

Amalia began the same explanation she gave the woman in Carson City. She identified herself as Dr. Gilbert Grissom's colleague who needed to speak with Sara Sidle, his wife. She explained that Sara was in the jungle with the committee and she needed to get an urgent message to her.

After speaking for some three minutes, the woman on the other line gave no indication she was listening to a word Amalia said. Even after Amalia stopped talking, there was a palpable silence between the two. "Hola? Usted esta alli?" _Hello? Are you there?_ Amalia asked.

"Si. Un momento."

Amalia heard the woman loudly bang the phone down and footsteps walking away. She hoped she might be fetching Madam Grissom, but Amalia knew that was just a pipe dream.

Eugenia did return to the phone call some five minutes later. She told Amalia Sara was traveling with her boss and another man to the office. Eugenia had tried to contact the trio on a two-way radio, but she figured they were out of range, since they did not answer.

"Me voy a almorzar, pero lo voy a dejar pasar Sara tu mensaje," Eugenia said to Amalia, explaining that although she was going out for lunch she would leave a written message for Sara.

Amalia didn't trust this woman with a complicated message. But if she left a succinct message, Amalia hoped Sara would understand urgency of the matter through the brevity of the message. She took a deep breath and said, "El Profesor Grissom está desaparecido. Por favor, volver a Las Vegas tan pronto como sea posible." _Professor Grissom is missing. Please return to Las Vegas as soon as you can._ Amalia asked the woman on the other line to repeat the message to her, which she did.

"OK?" Eugenia asked.

"Si, señora. Muchas gracias."

Amalia hung up the phone and sat back against her toilet. She knew she exhausted all the avenues to find Professeur Grissom. All she could do now was wait.

Realizing how alone she felt, Amalia needed to seek refuge with her husband. She kept the cordless phone in her hand as she exited the bathroom, turning off the light before she closed the door.

* * *

While Ramon was unable to get a hold of Eugenia at the office, he did reach someone the third time he tried the two-way radio. It was the driver who picked Ramon and Sara up from the airport almost a week ago. While the driver couldn't remember Ramon, when the American brought up the name "Sexy Sidal," the driver let out a hearty laugh and recalled both Ramon and Sara (who he described as "la mujer muy linda, pero no es Sexy Sidal" — a very nice woman but she's no "Sexy Sidal."

The man — Oscar — said he would drive to their location. Once there, he would attempt to move the truck. If nothing could be done, the four of them would go back to the office in his truck.

Fortunately, Oscar was much more adept at driving on the mud than Fred. He arrived at the scene in less than half an hour. He quickly assessed the situation, said something in Spanish that made Ramon and him laugh and got a rope out of the truck to tie his truck to the old Chevy.

With Sara behind the steering wheel of the Chevy and Fred and Ramon at the ready to push, Oscar dragged the Chevy out of the mud. Knowing she had traction, Sara maneuvered the truck alongside Oscar's vehicle. Seeing Oscar roll down his window, Sara reached across the seat to roll down the passenger window.

"Muy bien, señora!" Oscar congratulated.

"Gracias," Sara said with a smile as Fred and Ramon approached the two vehicles.

"Tu quieres manajar a la oficina?"

Although Sara might have understood what Oscar asked, Ramon was quick to translate. "He wants to know if you mind driving back to the office."

"Yeah, that's fine," Sara said as she watched Fred quickly get into Oscar's truck.

Ramon went to get into the Chevy with Sara, but she stopped him. "Do you mind traveling with them? I'd feel better if you kept an eye on Fred."

"That's probably a good idea. I don't trust him either," Ramon said as he shut the door again. "Be careful. We'll talk on the CB."

Sara rolled up the passenger window and buckled her seatbelt. The radio crackled to life as she heard Ramon's voice: "Breaker, breaker 1-9,do you copy? We have a 380 in progress. Over."

"Ramon, do you have any idea what you just said?" Sara asked over her radio.

"You didn't say, 'over.' Over."

"You are asking me to use channel 19 while you just used channel 6 to talk to me, plus, you said there is 380 in progress, which is code for glue sniffing."

She heard Ramon mumble something in Spanish followed by hearty laughter from Oscar. "You are such a killjoy. Over."

"Stop sniffling glue, and let's get going," Sara said, before adding, "Over."

As Oscar moved the lead truck forward, Sara followed in his tracks. The two drove slowly to the office, some 30 minutes away.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: Like I said before, this chapter would never have happened without Chauncey. It was just a jumbled mess, but fortunately she talked me through it. Thank you.

Hope all is well. Comments, reviews greatly appreciated.

Also, to Robynne — Tag! You're turn.


	34. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to CSI.

* * *

**CHAPTER 33**

With Oscar's truck in the front, Sara followed the tracks left in its wake. The time alone allowed her to decompress after what happened with Fred. She couldn't believe what Fred did. Sure he was a flirt, but Sara never thought for a minute that he would attack her, especially in such a vulnerable situation.

And the situation could have been worse. What if she was the one who had been hurt when they fell down the ravine? She might not have been able to stop Fred if he attacked her while she was hurt. He might have raped her.

A feeling of nausea hit her as she realized the magnitude of what Fred had done_. The son-of-a-bitch could have raped me, _she thought. _If Gil knew what had happened, he would have pounced on Fred worse than Ramon_.

Sara recalled how Grissom never trusted Fred. He described him as sleazy. And Sara thought while Gil would have been livid about what Fred did to her, he probably wouldn't have been surprised Fred initiated such a vile act.

_Kind of like how you weren't surprised Sylvie Martin got her hands on Gil._

The thought hit her like a ton of bricks. Sara felt her heart sink into her stomach. Just like Gil put out warnings about Fred, Sara did the same thing with Sylvie. She always felt Gil was foolish about not being careful with Sylvie, but maybe he couldn't see how dangerous she could be.

Maybe Grissom wasn't just stringing Sara along at the airport; maybe he had true remorse for what happened. And maybe what happened wasn't exactly what Sylvie Martin had told her.

Maybe there was room in Sara's heart to forgive him.

But before she forgives him, he has to tell her the truth. No bullshit. Just the raw, honest truth, no matter how much it might hurt.

"I have to get home," Sara said aloud to absolutely no one but herself.

Home. While that word should conjure nothing but solace, it did anything but. She and Grissom faced another turning point in their relationship. They were on opposite sides of a chasm, neither knowing how deep, or how to bridge this gap they both created.

And despite all the the uncertainty she faced and will face, Sara missed her husband. Longed to see his face. Longed to erase the ugliness from seeing him at the airport and try get to on solid ground. She hoped he still felt the same way.

With so many thoughts floating in her mind, Sara hadn't realized she had slowly lifted her foot off the gas pedal. Soon she began driving at a snail's pace, which created a chasm of road between hers and Oscar's truck.

"Damn," Sara said as she pushed on the gas. By the time she closed the gap, both trucks had entered the city, leaving muddy tracks upon the city's uneven, paved roads.

As she made a left turn while tailgating Oscar's bumper, Sara noticed how filthy her hands were. If she wanted to leave the country as soon, as possible, she would have to wash up and change clothes.

Fortunately, she was prepared for that scenario, as long as a certain something was still safe under the passenger seat.

When they reached the office, Sara put the old rusted out Chevy in park then reached under the seat to search for her backpack. In all the commotion, she had forgotten about it, and now she was worried it fallen out of the truck when Ramon's door unexpectedly swung open.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the well-worn pack. Call her anal retentive, but she had packed essentials for any emergency in her backpack — first aid kit, toiletries, a change of clothes, two pairs of socks and two pairs of underwear, bug spray, sunscreen and her wallet.

The only thing not in the backpack was her passport. But that is only because Sara carried that item in her Saddlemen waterproof lanyard bag around her neck. She pressed her palm to her chest to make sure that was still where it should be.

As long as she had those items, she believed she could reschedule her flight and get home to Vegas earlier than her original itinerary. And she could do so without returning to the base camp. There really wasn't anything there she couldn't live without except...

She unzipped the backpack and searched inside for one item. With a smile, she took out a wadded-up sock. She unrolled it to find her cell phone and charger. Although she couldn't use the phone in Nicaragua, she wondered if there might be a converter electric plug. If so, she could at least charge the phone, so she could use it the moment she reached the states — especially if she has a layover.

Sara opened the door to the Chevy, heaved her backpack on her shoulder and slammed the door behind her. She pocketed the keys and walked to the office door where she found Oscar reading a local newspaper. He put down his paper and stood up to greet her. "Ah, Señora. Venga."

He waved for her to follow him as he went toward a storage room. Sara followed him cautiously, quite ready to strike if Oscar tried anything physical.

Oscar did nothing of the sort and pointed to a box in the corner. "Ropa. Si tu necesitas." He used his hands to mime what he was saying, pulling at his shirt and pants.

"Ropa?" Sara said. It dawned on her what the word meant. "Oh. Ropa. Clothes. … Oh, gracias. Um... yo tengo." She said, pointing to her backpack and saying she had some. "But... um... agua para...?" She made like she was splashing water on her face and cleaning her underarms.

Oscar nodded his head. He understood what she was meaning. "Necesitas bañarse. … Clean."

"Si."

Oscar took a look at how filthy she was, including her hair. He then had an idea. He grabbed some items from the clothing box and then gestured for her to follow him. "Venga conmigo."

He went to a door that led outside to a small yard and patio area. An eight-foot concrete wall on three sides provided fencing. On the wall of the building was a spigot with a hose attached. He pointed to it, and then showed her the articles from the box — a towel and a woman's one-piece bathing suit. "Is OK?"

Sara thought about it. She knew there was too much mud on her to clean in a bathroom sink. If she wore the bathing suit she could wash all the mud off her using the hose outside, and then change into her clothes in the bathroom. It was a good solution. "Gracias Oscar. Um... Voy... cambio... baño."

The Spanish was sketchy, but Oscar understood her fine. She would change in the bathroom and come back out to wash. "Si. Señora."

The two of them went back inside and Oscar opened the bathroom door for her and turned on the light. "Un momento," he said as he briskly walked to the storage area, and then came right back. "Necesita javon?"

Sara knew that word. "Soap? Si. Yo tengo. Gracias."

Oscar looked at her and smiled. He gestured for her to take the bar of soap he fetched. "Take. Si necesita mas."

Sara laughed. She figured that was Oscar's nice way of saying, "Lady, you're a mess and you're going to need a lot of soap." She took new bar of soap. "Gracias."

Before entering the bathroom, Sara took the keys to the truck and handed them to Oscar. He took them then urged her to enter the bathroom. "I... make sure... no one enter."

Sara smiled and nodded her thanks as she closed the door. Oscar seemed genuinely concerned for her and for her privacy. She wondered if Oscar's comments stemmed from something Ramon had told him. Yet, she still locked the door and checked for any peepholes. She found none.

After changing in the bathroom, she wrapped the towel around her and went back outside to the patio. The water from the hose was cold and coppery, but it did the trick. Sara felt better as she lathered up and washed away the layers of filth — both the literal mud and the figurative filth that came from Fred putting his hands on her.

She washed herself several times, especially when a memory of Fred grabbing her popped in her mind. She was glad Oscar gave her more soap. She quickly used up all of hers, along with a good deal of the new bar of soap.

After getting all the suds off of her, Sara took a quick inspection of the landscape around her. Seeing absolutely no eyes upon her, she put the nozzle of the hose inside the top of the swimsuit. She squirmed as the cold water hit certain sensitive parts of her body. She moved the house to her back and front a few times.

After finishing with the hose, she wrapped the towel around herself and went back into the bathroom with her backpack in tow. With the ability to strip down in privacy, she cleaned herself a little more using water from the sink before drying again and dressing.

Destined for a trash can, her dirty clothes laid in a neat pile in the corner of the cramped bathroom. After Sara dried her hair, she began to feel 100 percent better. She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard yelling from another room.

Sara repacked her backpack with her essentials and went to find out the reason for Fred and Ramon's shouting match.

Fred Mandel could barely conceal his arrogant amusement as he regarded Ramon Alvarez's concerns. "Ramon, you are overreacting. You know, I'd bet a $100 you aren't even reading the notes correctly"

Furious with his findings and Fred's attitude, Ramon refused to conceal his emotions. "Don't bullshit me, Fred," Ramon said. "I know how to read research notes. And now that I've read these notes, I understand why that Janice person bolted out of here early."

"She left because of problems back home," Fred said. "It had nothing to do with the project. And there's nothing in these notes that say something was wrong with the project."

Ramon laughed. "You are so full of shit, Fred" he said, showing Fred the packet of information. "And these notes I found here prove it."

Once Sara saw Ramon slam that new packet of papers on the desk, she snatched them up before Fred could reach them. Even as she quickly perused the pages, she could tell the discrepancies between this set of notes and the notes they had access to at the campsite. "Fred, there is a lot of stuff in this report that isn't presented in the one you've showed us."

"Neither one of you have the right to go into my office or read my reports!" Before he could get close enough to Sara to grab the reports, she swiftly handed the papers back to Ramon.

"You know what? Fine," Fred said. "There's no talking to you two. Janice was a shitty researcher who couldn't identify the northeast corner of our project grid from a hole in the ground."

After suffering through a humiliating episode in the aftermath of the car accident, Fred puffed up his chest. "And neither one of you two are worth a damn either. Vicky and I can run circles around you both."

Instead of being insulted, both Sara and Ramon stood firm and confident. "Sara," Ramon said. "I do believe that's an invitation for us to leave."

"Not that either of us needed one," Sara agreed. "Fred, I formally resign from this position and will be leaving today for the states."

"Today?!" Fred said. "You can't just change your itinerary!"

"I can and I will," Sara said.

"Fuck you, Sidle!" Fred said.

That outburst not only caught Ramon's attention, but spurred Oscar to come into the room as well. They both seem to give a look that said they were at the ready to take care of Señor Mandel, if Sara saw fit.

But Sara didn't need them to do anything. She took a step toward Fred, and invaded his personal space. "After that little stunt you pulled earlier, I truly think it is in your best interest to let me go without another word. Or do I need to remind you of my background in law enforcement?" After Sara spoke, Fred shifted his eyes downwards. "The failure of this project is on your head, Fred, not Janice's and certainly not ours."

Sara took a step back. Fred looked around him to see he didn't have a friend in this fight. He skulked away, his limp caused by his hurt ankle mysteriously forgotten. Within the silence in the room, it was easy to hear the door slam as Fred left the office.

"So you're not going back to the camp?" Ramon asked.

Sara took off her backpack. "I have enough here to get me back to Vegas, including my wallet, passport and cell phone."

"Always prepared, right?" Ramon said.

"I try to be."

"You do realize that means I have to go back to camp alone," Ramon mockingly whined.

"I think you can hold your own," Sara retorted. "But that doesn't mean you have to stay there long."

"You've got a point there," Ramon agreed. "Señor," he added as he turned to Oscar. "Es posible que podamos contratar como conductor?"

Oscar lit up as he pondered being a driver for the duo. "Si. Si. Cual quieremos hacer." _Whatever you need_, he told them.

Ramon asked Oscar to stick around while he and Sara did some work on the computer. Oscar said he would stay by the door and make sure that Fred does not disturb them.

Sara took a seat in front of the computer and removed the lanyard from around her neck. Along with her passport, she kept a handwritten copy of her travel itinerary, which included passenger number. Using that information, she logged onto American Airlines to see how to change her flight arrangements.

Ramon looked around the room for something to sit on and idly chatted as he moved about. "See. I should be prepared like you. If I had my itinerary in my wallet, I could just go to the airport with you." He found a stool to sit on and pulled it next to Sara as she continued to tap on the keyboard. "I'm guessing you just want to head over there after you make these arrangements. But maybe I can try to change my flight or at least write down information and change it at the airport." Ramon looked through the various papers on the desk for a clean sheet and a writing utensil. "If I pay Oscar a little more, he might be willing to drive me to the camp and wait till I pack before we get on the road and drive to …"

Sara noticed how Ramon suddenly stopped talking. She turned her attention from the monitor to Ramon, who was holding a single sheet of paper in his hand and a look of concern upon his face.

"Hey," Sara said. "What's up?"

Ramon bit the inside of his lip before speaking. "Ummm... I found a note. I'm guessing Eugenia took it. What's your husband's last name?"

"Grissom. Gil Grissom," Sara said, as she craned her neck to try and read the note. "Why?"

"Well, this note says someone from Amalia called from Paris."

"Amalia?" Sara turned around in the seat. She was both curious and a bit nervous. "That's Gil's secretary in Paris. What does it say?

Ramon scratched his head, and clearly looked agitated. "Well, it says, 'Profesor Grissom está desaparecido. Por favor, volver a Las Vegas tan pronto como sea posible.'"

"It's saying I should go back to Vegas as soon as possible?"

"Yeah," Ramon said, his voice soft.

"But I don't understand the beginning to the message," Sara said. "Ramon? What does it say?"

"Well... desaparecido is a really strong word. I'm not sure his secretary used the right word."

"Jesus, Ramon," Sara said, losing her patience. "What does that mean?"

"OK. OK," Ramon replied, trying not to stumble on his words. "Desaparecido means 'missing,' but it means more than that. You would use it when someone has vanished."

Ramon noticed how the color drained from Sara's face and immediately tried to tone down the connotation. "But maybe that secretary of his... Amalia... Maybe she didn't realize that. Maybe she just means she can't get a hold of him. I mean, it was a surprise to you that he was going back to Vegas. Maybe he never told his secretary."

But Sara knew that wouldn't be the case. Grissom wouldn't have left Paris without informing Amalia first. And more importantly, Amalia was too gifted a linguist to use the wrong term when leaving such a brief message. If that word means "vanished," that means Gil Grissom has vanished.

And that scared the hell out of Sara.

She stood up, visibly shaken and unnerved. "I got to get to the airport now. OSCAR!"

Ramon stood up. "Sara, take it easy. It's probably just a misunderstanding. Don't do this to yourself."

"Ramon. Please. I need to go now."

The look in Sara's eyes broke Ramon's heart. "OK. OK." At that moment, Oscar entered the room, and Ramon immediately spoke to him. "Ella quiere salir ahora." _She wants to leave now._

"Al aeropuerto?"

"Si."

"Bueno. Vamos."

"Come on, Sara," Ramon said softly, picking up her backpack. "You have your cell and your passport and everything?"

Sara patted herself down, her hands shaking as she did. "Yes. I have everything. Let's go."

The trio headed out the door and into Oscar's truck. No one voiced the necessity of writing a note to Fred about their plans or whereabouts. But Oscar did remember to leave the keys to the old, rusty Chevy on Fred's desk.

* * *

When they got to the airport, Sara was ready to jump out of the truck as soon as she saw departures, but Ramon stopped her. "We're both going in with you."

"You don't have..."

"How are you going to communicate with them?" Ramon asked. "Come on. Let us help."

"OK. Thanks."

Once inside the small terminal, Sara was grateful Oscar and Ramon accompanied her. Sara couldn't decipher much of what was said in the chaos and cacaphony of sounds. She followed Ramon a half step behind him, as Oscar walked protectively behind her, making sure a pickpocket or street urchin didn't bother the obvious American.

When they made it to the counter, Ramon turned on his charm, which he combined with his honest concern. In Spanish, he told the woman behind the counter how his friend needed to return to America as soon as possible. Although she didn't want to leave her post as a medical missionary, her husband was sick and needed her immediate attention.

As an added bonus, Oscar came up to the counter and said how worried he was about Sara since she was "embarazada."

Although Sara was oblivious to what Ramon and Oscar were saying, her raw and honest emotions made their act even more convincing. The woman found a seat on a flight to Los Angeles in 20 minutes, which would be possible since Sara didn't have any luggage to check. But Sara would have to pay the difference in fare herself, and once in LAX, she would have to find a connecting flight to Vegas.

Ramon quickly relayed the information in English to Sara, who enthusiastically nodded her head and gave the woman behind the counter her credit card. "Gracias. Gracias."

"De nada, señora" the woman said as she made the arrangements and printed a boarding pass in a short minute.

With a boarding pass in hand, Sara turned to Ramon and Oscar. "I don't know what you said to her. Am I supposed to be embarrassed about something?"

Ramon looked at Oscar, who turned red. Ramon clarified Oscar's statement. "Oscar said you were 'embarazada,' which means you're pregnant. He told the woman how he feared your stress would affect your unborn child."

It was Sara's turn to blush, but she let out a laugh, too. "You two are dangerous together." Sara laughed, which brought smiles to the two men's faces. "I don't know what to say. Thank you both."

She put out her hand to shake Oscar's hand. "Buena suerte, señora. Good luck."

Ramon then pulled her into a hug and released her, leaving his hands on her shoulders. "If I give you my card, would you please get in touch with me sometime. Just to let me know everything's OK, which it will be."

Sara put on a brave smile. "Sure." She took a card he extracted from his wallet.

"And don't forget when you describe me to your friends..."

"I'll be sure to talk about how good looking you are."

"You're the best," Ramon said, with a big smile. "Hey, I expect trashy romance novels details about when you and Gil hook up again."

Sara shook her head. He just couldn't help himself. "If we have a rendezvous in a castle, you'll be the first to know."

"I better be!" Ramon yelled, as he watched Sara leave. He and Oscar kept their eyes trained on Sara to make sure she was heading in the right direction. And of course, she was.

"Ojala que sea bien," Oscar said, hoping that Sara would be OK.

Ramon sighed. "Ojala que ella encuentra a su marido."

The duo turned to leave. Ramon truly did hope Sara would find her husband. He didn't know how Sara would take it if her husband truly had vanished.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: I hope this chapter was OK. If it was on paper, I would have ball up the pages and thrown them in the trashcan before going to the manual typewriter and punching out the chapter again. (That's a fancy way to say, I rewrote it.) I hope it reads well. (CHAUNCEY: I especially hope you find it acceptable).

Reviews, comments, concerns appreciated.


	35. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI

* * *

**CHAPTER 34**

Connor Headley lightly scratched at his arm as he looked over notes he had taken concerning a case file. He reached for his mug of tea and blew on it before taking a small sip. He had read over the notes several times, but he still could not reconcile certain points.

He checked his watch: 10:30 a.m. He had been in and out of the office for more than two hours, and had been staring at his notes for at least a half hour. He stood up to stretch his body. As his mind began to wander on more personal matters, his office phone rang, breaking his concentration. After two more rings, he took a deep, rejuvenating breath and answered the line. "This is Connor Headley of Sunrise Evaluation and Research."

"Mr. Headley, this is Nick Stokes of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We spoke almost two weeks ago about the Marshall Landry case."

"Yes, Mr. Stokes," Headley said, his tone even and measured. "This is an unexpected call. How may I help you?"

"Well, I was wondering something about your research with the Landry case."

"I see," Headley said. "What specifically is your inquiry?"

"You remember during our discussion how the name of my former supervisor popped up?"

"Yes, of course," Headley said, as he scratched his arm. "Mr. Gil Grissom."

"Right," Nick said. "Have you talked to him at all about the case?"

"I had called Mr. Grissom, yes. I was hoping to speak with him about the Marshall Landry case, specifically his theory on the possible lone survivor." Headley's voice never strayed from the conventional, professional demeanor he demonstrated during his meeting with Nick and Sara. "However, Mr. Grissom and I had not secured a one-on-one interview to discuss the matter further."

"But you did call him, is that correct?" Nick asked.

"Yes, Mr. Stokes. I actually spoke with Mr. Grissom on the telephone approximately a week ago in which I introduced myself and asked about the possibility of meeting, much as you and Ms. Sidle graciously accomodated."

"So, he didn't want to meet with you? What did he say?"

"I'm sure this is something you could ask Mr. Grissom, Mr. Stokes," Headley said. "I'm somewhat confused as to why you would ask that."

"I'm just trying to get some information, Mr. Headley. I haven't been in touch with Grissom for a little while."

"I see," Headley said, in his natural, uncommitted voice. "Mr. Grissom said he would think about the possibility of speaking with me and asked that I call him in three days time about the matter."

"You called back?" Nick asked, knowing the answer since Headley's message was on Sara and Grissom's home machine.

"I did indeed. I left a message."

"OK," Nick said trying to prompt the man to continue. "So... did Grissom call you back?"

"He did not. No sir."

"And you never called him again?"

"I did not. No sir."

"I thought you said you were interested in his input?"

"Oh, I would enjoy speaking with Mr. Grissom about his theories surrounding the Marshall Landry case," Headley said. "However, at this moment other responsibilities are in need my time."

There was a lull in their conversation, and Headley didn't pursue to end the silence. But Nick did. "Well, thank you for the information, Mr. Headley. If I need answers to anymore questions, you mind if I give you another call?"

"Of course not, Mr. Stokes," Headley said pleasantly. "If I am available to help, I would be more than willing to do so."

After Nick said goodbye, Headley hung up the phone and stretched again. Before he returned to his notes, he contemplated having a snack. He grabbed his small cooler where he kept his lunch, along with a few things to munch on. He brushed aside his apple, which he would save for lunch, and dug into his cooler for a bag of baby carrots.

But instead he snatched something else. As he perused through his hand-written notes another time, he tore off the wrapper of a granola bar and took a healthy bite.

* * *

When Sara boarded the plane in Nicaragua to Los Angeles, she hadn't thought about the length of the flight. When she left Vegas a week ago, she had a layover in Texas, which broke up the long flight to Central America into two healthy chunks.

But the direct flight to Los Angeles was a different story. Five hours and nothing to keep her mind occupied except an in-flight magazine with most of the puzzles completed, the Sky Mall catalog, and a complimentary movie starring the actor from The Office and an impossibly thin Kiera Knightly. It was a little depressing, although Sara did do a double take when she saw the actor who played a bit part as a trucker. From far away, he could have passed for her husband.

Not that her husband was far away from her thoughts. The idle time meant she spent a good deal of time thinking about Grissom and his well-being. So many scenarios filled her mind, most of them not positive. Did something happen to his flight from Texas to Vegas? Did something happen to him at home? Did he leave to go clear his mind? If he left would he come back?

Or, and this wasn't too much of stretch for her aloof husband, was he just ignoring any outside calls and correspondence and just waiting for Sara to arrive home? She reminded herself that was a real possibility. He had been known to retreat from the outside world when faced with personal conflicts.

Sara could never forget the last look she saw on Grissom's face; He look stunned, lost. Even in her rage after slapping him in the face, she could identify how desperate he was to talk to her, but she wouldn't allow it.

He could have raged back. He could have told her to go to hell as easily as she told him. But he didn't. He wanted to explain, and thinking in hindsight, Sara could tell he was begging for an opportunity of forgiveness.

So that left Grissom to arrive home to an empty house, probably consumed with a lot of doubts and a lot of questions. It wouldn't surprise her that he delved deeper into himself in the wake of her devastating reaction to his devastating actions and lived like a hermit in that big house.

She hoped he was home. And she hoped they were ready to move forward.

When the plane landed at LAX, Sara waded through custom lines and, once through, sought out a skycap in a golf cart. She looked in her wallet for some tip money, but only found $7. Then she reached in the side pocket of her khakis and found the stash of cash Ramon gave her while Oscar drove them to the airport.

"Ramon? Where did you find this?" Sara asked, knowing Ramon didn't bring his own wallet to the capitol.

"I knew you would be using your own money to fund your trip home, so I raided a petty cash box he found in Fred's office."

"Ramon!" Sara said incredulously. "How did you find it?"

"Vicki told me," Ramon answered.

"I can't take this."

"It's not even used for the camp, Sara," Ramon explained. "Fred uses it for gambling with the locals."

"I don't know Ramon…" Sara said.

"Hey, he gambled with the wrong people," Ramon said, pointing to Sara and himself. "This is a bet he lost, and we're just cashing in a little."

Ramon could tell Sara still wasn't sold on the idea. "Sara, you are in a hell-fire hurry and you never know what you will encounter through this airport or even when you get into the states. Just take some of this cash. It will make me feel better."

Knowing that Ramon was looking out for her (and the fact that he probably enjoyed taking some of Fred's gambling funds), Sara took the money. And now was the time to use it, specifically to find a skycap in a golf cart who would drive her from the international side of the airport to the domestic end. She flagged a skycap, passed him a $30 and made her request, pleading she needed to get a flight home as soon as possible.

While on her LAX version of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, Sara powered-up her cell phone and called Grissom's cell phone. When she heard the message pop up, she was going to hang up, but opted to leave a message instead. She hoped where ever he was, whether at home as a hermit or somewhere else reflecting on what transpired, he would take the time to check his messages.

She called the house as well, and left a brief message there. With about 30 percent battery life available, Sara made a mental list of who to call next. It was almost 7 o'clock in the afternoon, and while she figured her co-workers might be asleep, one of them was bound to answer.

Sara hit paydirt on her first try. A groggy voice answered her first call. "Stokes."

"Nick, it's Sara."

Camped out on his couch, Nick sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Sara. Damn. Where are you?"

"I'm in Los Angeles, at the airport."

"Right now?" Nick recalled the itinerary he and Greg found at her house. "Weren't you scheduled to come back tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, I changed my plans," Sara said, as the golf cart came to a stop. She mouthed her thanks to the sky cap and exited the vehicle. "Nick, listen I need a favor. I can't get in touch with Grissom and I'm worried about him. Can you stop by the house and see if he's there?"

Nick swallowed a lump in his throat. "Sara, did you get a call from someone who works in Paris with Grissom. Someone named... Emilia or ..."

"Amalia," Sara interrupted, as she walked briskly among the throngs of travelers. "That's Gil's secretary. How did you know about that Nick? What's going on?"

Nick could hear the fear in Sara's voice. But Nick knew Sara would not want him to sugarcoat anything. "Amalia called DB before the last shift. She hadn't talked to Grissom for days and she's really worried. DB asked us to check out your house and see if Grissom was there. I hope you're not pissed about that, but Greg and I went in the house. I used your key."

"I'm not pissed," Sara said, her voice clipped, as she walked briskly among departing and arriving passengers with nothing but her backpack. "But was he there?"

Nick sighed. "No, Sara. He wasn't."

Sara stopped dead in her tracks. The movements of people going around her in every direction blurred, and their sounds morphing into white noise that infected her brain like a single whine.

Despite her silence, Nick could hear Sara's heavy breathing and knew she hadn't disconnected the call. "Sara? Sara? Come on, hon. Talk to me." He repeated that phrase a couple of times more.

Finally, Nick's voice broke Sara out of her fog. She began to move forward again as she spoke. "I ... ah..." She weaved her way around people, her brisk step becoming a light jog. "I'm on my way to a ticket counter to see how quickly I can get a flight."

"OK. OK. Good," Nick said. "Why don't I stop by the house again. Maybe he just wasn't home when Greg and I got there."

"I called him, Nick," Sara said sadly. "He's not answering his cell or the home phone. Was his car in the garage?"

"No," Nick confirmed. "Listen, it's less than an hour to fly from LAX to McCarron. I can pick you up..."

"If I can the flight fast enough," Sara said. "I'm not sitting around her for three or four hours. If I have to, I'll rent a car and drive."

"Sara. That's more than four hours..."

"Not if I'm driving, Nick."

Nick could just imagine Sara speeding down the lonely stretches of desert highway at 100 mph. "Sara, give me a call after your talk to ticketing. Promise me you'll take a flight if it's two hours or less, OK?"

"Alright," Sara said, eager to end the call. "Thanks Nicky."

Sara hung up the phone and began to run at full speed. She stopped in front of a departure board and scanned it frantically searching for Las Vegas.

American Airlines flight 458 to Las Vegas. On time for a departure at 7:45 p.m.

Come hell or high water, Sara was getting on that flight.

* * *

_tbc_

* * *

A/N: I hope to continue this ASAP. I split up this chapter. I apologize for the delay. I hope everyone is doing well. Reviews, comments are appreciated.


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